


Little Bird and The Colour of Fire

by swimmingfox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Survival skillz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 72,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1938630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/pseuds/swimmingfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'She wouldn’t come with me if I was the last fucking man in the Seven Kingdoms. Fucking idiot.' / 'An empty wood full of shadows and no one but <em>him</em>.' </p><p>King's Landing AU with very contrasting Sansa and Sandor POVs. Sansa goes with Sandor on the night of the Battle of Blackwater. Survival in the woods and a tangled relationship ensue... (this is a combination of two previously separate stories put together for ease of reading!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I’d put two of my previous stories – one of which is from Sansa’s POV and the other which is the same story from Sandor’s POV – into one full story, splicing it together slightly differently and with some minor edits, just for ease of reading. If you’ve read my other story ‘Choices’, it’s the same sort of format, except slightly more of a tag-team approach, with often the same events repeated from the other’s POV. Hope you like it and hope it works!
> 
> It’s ye olde King’s Landing/Battle of Blackwater AU. Mostly TV show canon. Slow-burn, as is my wont. I promise free-range hares, survival skills, fighting (verbal and physical) and poetic Sandor, obvs.
> 
> Sansa is 16, and the Hound slightly younger than in the show, which makes me feel marginally better about everything…

‘No little bird, I won’t hurt you.’ His voice had a near-imperceptible trace of softness that she’d never heard before. 

He had leaned right down so that he was almost level with her face, and she steeled herself to hold his gaze, a gaze that she couldn’t quite read, smelling the wine, and the fire, and death. He reeked of it. His face was coated in blood, drizzling down his burnt cheek and smeared in his brows. There were patches of blood on his chest mail and on the armour on his shoulders. His hair dangled thickly in clumps in front of the burnt side of his face. 

Though the moment lasted only a breath, she felt suspended, paralysed with fear and indecision. The thought of going with _him_ , out there, into the battle-fury, and then – beyond. 

She imagined them riding into woods that disappeared into darkness, being swallowed whole. But - what would happen if she stayed here? Would she simply be another trophy for another ruler? Or if the Lannisters somehow triumphed, how long would she last as Joffrey’s tortured plaything if the Hound wasn’t there, like he’d sneered in the corridor that time, to come between her and ‘her beloved king’? 

But that was here, within castle walls, eyes at every corner. What would happen when it was just the two of them? She was still scared of him: his hulk, and his unpredictability, lurching from something nearing a gruff chivalry to drunken monster in a second. 

She swallowed. Her awkward sound seemed to break something unspoken. The Hound breathed in suddenly and gutturally, and he straightened, towering over her again, his face setting. He turned stiffly and walked to the door, reaching for the latch.

‘Wait -’ she said.

He froze, and slowly turned.

***

She – fuck. She looks at me and that damned bottom lip starts trembling. Somehow, telling her I won’t bloody hurt her isn’t enough. Calling her bird again isn’t enough. She still thinks I’m going to eat her up, rape her, worse. Could have done that a hundred times. 

I take one last look at those eyes, damned Southron pools fit for diving into stark – _Stark_ – naked and never coming up for air, and lean up, and away, away from her forever, and make for the door. She wouldn’t come with me if I was the last fucking man in the Seven Kingdoms. Fucking idiot.

And then -

 _Wait_ , she says. _I’ll – I’m coming_.

***

For a moment, his face lost its hard edge. Then he nodded, curtly. ‘Get some things together. A small bundle, no more.’ He looked down at her frame. ‘Your plainest dress. If you have one. There’ll be no highborn ladies on the road.’ His grin was slightly cruel, before he was serious again. ‘I’ll fetch horses. Latch the door. Don’t let anyone in. I’ll knock four times.’ And he was gone.

Sansa ran to the door and pushed up the bolt. She leant her back against it, her heart hammering high in her throat. She could hardly breathe. Underneath her terror she felt faintly excited - a heroine, stealing away in the dead of night. 

She would be brave. She would make it back to Winterfell.

***

I listen for the bolt from the other side. There. I move off, down the hallway. Hells. The sweetest two words I’ve ever heard. I’ll ever hear. There’s a lump in my throat that I want to scrape out with my sword. It’s madness, probably. We could get caught. She’d never survive if she was dragged back here again, in shame, to that blackheart or to the boy and the Queen. And I’d be choking down on a spike before long. I have to get her away, quick, and stay well off the Kingsroad. Hells.

My room first, then the kitchens. A serving lass makes like she’s a mouse I’ve stepped on when I barge in and is out the door like a flash. I forget how I must look, worse than usual, a dead man wrenched out of the mud.

The stables. Ralf’s snivelling at the door, not his usual yapping self. Battle’s got him spooked. Everyone’s spooked, and running, or hiding in a corner somewhere. Best place. I buck him up, instruct him to get Stranger ready, walk along the stalls. Horses are all spooked too. Eyes like boiled eggs. There’s a palfrey, one of the lowerborn ladies’ probably, good size, bit calmer than the others. She’ll do. 

Best get back to her, before she changes her mind.

***

Quickly, Sansa gathered up some things. A brown woollen dress too hot for King’s Landing. A spare smock. She tumbled her jewels – two necklaces, a bracelet, a charm with a direwolf on it – into a square of cloth used for her moonbloods and wrapped them up. She pulled a coverlet from the bed and began to place her clothes on it. 

Her door rattled. Someone was outside, pushing against it. Sansa’s heart stopped. 

A frantic light knock on the door and an urgent whisper. ‘Sansa! Let me in!’ 

Shae. 

Sansa exhaled, and rushed to the door. ‘He said I’m not supposed to let anyone in,’ she said in a whisper.

Shae slipped into the room. ‘ _Who_ says?’ Her eyes caught the clothes on Sansa’s bed. She turned towards her. ‘Sansa. What is happening?’ 

Sansa’s eyes dropped to the floor. ‘The – The Hound. He’s leaving. He’s taking me to Winterfell’. 

Shae’s voice hardened. ‘Is he.’ It wasn’t really a question.

There was a silence. Sansa’s eyes flickered upwards for a second to Shae’s penetrating gaze and fell quickly down again. She gulped, and nodded. 

Shae grabbed Sansa’s chin and forced it upwards, looking at her fiercely. ‘Why are you blushing?’

‘I’m – I’m not, it’s just – you’re making me blush. I know what you think. And I don’t care. It’s too dangerous for me here. He’s right. I need to go.’

Shae’s eyes softened slightly and her hand moved to Sansa’s cheek. ‘You’re right.’ She gazed at her. ‘It is too dangerous here for you. But that man – he is a monster. You don’t know what men are –‘ 

‘I do know. I do know what they are like, don’t you think I’ve seen it? Joffrey, Ser Meryn, Ser Boros, Littlefinger, those men who attacked me – they are monsters. The Hound – I know he’s horrible, but he’s never hurt me, never been cruel, except in words. I’ve seen it. I – I think he can be kind.’ 

Shae breathed out heavily, putting her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. ‘They are all the same. They all want one thing. Why does he want to take you away when he can be much faster on his own?’

There was a sudden heavy knock. Another. Two more. Shae glanced towards the door and back at Sansa. 

‘That’s him,’ Sansa said.

Shae’s jaw clenched and she let her hands fall. Sansa went to the door, and suddenly the Hound was in the room, seeming bigger and bloodier than ever. He was carrying a large bundle. His eyes steeled as he saw Shae, who jutted her chin out defiantly, holding his look. 

‘I told you not to let anyone in.’ The Hound didn’t move his eyes from Shae’s. 

Sansa spoke as calmly as she could. ‘It’s Shae. I trust her.’ 

‘You shouldn’t trust anyone,’ he said, viciousness creeping into his voice. 

‘Apart from you?’ Shae jerked her chin up at him fiercely. ‘What makes you so special?’ 

The Hound ran a hand over his beard with impatience. ‘I don’t have time for this.’ He turned to Sansa. ‘Do you want to come or not?’ 

Sansa took a jagged breath in and held it. This was her last chance to change her mind. To say no, and to stay here, in the Keep. ‘Yes,’ she said.

The Hound went to the bed, gathering her things into a pile in the coverlet. ‘Then for all the Gods’ sakes let’s go, before the whole damned castle falls in.’

‘Sansa, please don’t go with this man.’ Shae had a measured note of pleading in her voice as the Hound took a thin leather cord from a pocket and wound it around the bundle. 

‘Leave off, woman,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She can make up her own mind.’ 

‘Shae.’ Sansa looked at her pleadingly. ‘He – he won’t hurt me. I know he won’t.’ 

The Hound straightened up with the bundle, his eyes on Sansa. 

Shae looked from one to the other. She tilted her face up to the Hound and narrowed her eyes. ‘You do anything to her, I’ll kill you.’ 

He leaned down to her, impassive, a slight smile on his lips. ‘I’d kill you first.’ He looked at Sansa. ‘I’ve a boy waiting with the horses. Like to get to him before he has his head removed.’

Sansa turned to Shae, her eyes filling. 

Shae shrugged, with a small, wondering shake of her head. ‘Do what you must do.’ 

‘Thank you, Shae.’ Sansa turned to the Hound, who reached for the door latch.

‘Wait – ‘ Shae grabbed Sansa’s arm. ‘Wait outside,’ she said to the Hound, an instruction that gave him no option. 

‘Hells,’ he sighed fiercely under his breath, and left the room.

***

Fucking whore. What are they doing in there? I can hear her, muttering, that foreigner’s voice curling like a drawn-out Braavosi blade, words in the bird’s ear, words to turn her. She was looking like a late summer leaf in there. It won’t take much for her to sway. And all the while I’m waiting out here like a leashed fucking dog. Fucking whore. Fucking wall.

***

Shae shut the door behind him and leant down to her ankle, pulling up her skirts. She took out the dagger from its hold on her lower leg and held between her teeth. Untying the legstrap, she quickly lifted Sansa’s skirt and wound it round her calf, before taking the dagger from her mouth and slotting it into place. The blade pressed coldly onto Sansa’s skin. 

Shae straightened. ‘Anything happens, you use it. Don’t hesitate.’ 

Sansa gazed at her wonderingly. ‘Who are you, Shae, really?’ 

Shae shrugged and smoothed her hands over Sansa’s hair. ‘I’m no one.’

‘Will I ever see you again?’ 

‘I don’t know.’

‘When it’s all over, you could - come to Winterfell,’ Sansa said, though she knew it to be untrue. 

‘I don’t like the cold,’ Shae said. Sansa felt hot tears welling up again. Shae wiped one away. ‘We may yet see each other again. Who knows what lies in our futures.’ Sansa fell, sobbing, into her arms. Shae stroked her hair. ‘Goodbye, precious child. Don’t trust anyone. Be brave. Be a woman. And be careful.’ 

Sansa pulled back, her breath tightening in her throat. ‘What about you?’ 

Shae smiled calmly, looking stronger than ever. ‘I’ll be alright. I know how to take care of myself. And now you need to learn. Go.’ 

Sansa took a deep breath, then, looking past Shae to her dressing table, went over and grabbed the doll that Father had given her. She gave a last glance to her lady’s maid, and opened the door.

The Hound was waiting just outside, kicking the wall with his toe impatiently. 

‘Thank the Gods,’ he said. ‘I thought I was going to have to challenge her to a fucking duel.’ He caught sight of Sansa’s doll and raised his eyebrows, faintly amused. ‘Got everything you need?’ 

‘Yes,’ she said, not making eye contact, and grabbing her bundle from him to stuff it inside. 

He gave a small shake of his head, as if she was a child. ‘Come on.’ 

He strode down the hallway, carrying his sack, leaving Sansa to walk as quickly as she could after him. They turned down a curving stone stairwell, along a corridor, and over a stone bridge. Sansa could hear a churning cloud of noise. Men, or boats, or horses. 

‘Will we have to go through the - fighting?’ she asked tremulously to his back. 

‘No.’ He didn’t turn around. ‘It’s our lot we have to fear’. 

They emerged at a hallway utterly unfamiliar to Sansa, with sloping walls. 

The Hound glanced carefully both left and right and gestured with a sharp jerk of his head. ‘This way. Stay close.’ 

***

She’s tripping after me. I want to dash so fast out of this castle, out of this city, before she changes her mind that I almost keep losing her. She’s coming. Thinking of what’s going to happen in the next days is like opening a maegi’s box. Putting your hand in, reaching down and down into blackness that never ends. I’m going to be free to look at those hands, that skin, that hair – shit. I turn round and she collides into me, flies back. 

She’s like her own damned doll. Or one of those stick figures that crones make to fright the spirits, not that it does. You could snap her like a young twig. 

***

‘What?’ Sansa shrank slightly under his stare. 

He frowned, darkly pensive. ‘You’re too bloody recognisable. Anyone would know that flaming hair in a heartbeat.’ He scrutinised her for an unnervingly long moment and gave one of his sniffs. ‘This way.’ 

He strode left down a dark corridor and stooped into a doorway, opening it. 

It was an airless, plain room, with an unmade bed and an empty fire grate. The Hound went to a large wooden chest under the small window and opened it. 

‘Whose room is this?’ she said in a half-whisper, hovering by the door. 

‘Mine.’ He crouched over the chest. 

Sansa cast her eyes around the room. There was no matting, very plain carpets and curtains, a goblet on a table and some spilled wine. It smelt stale. The Hound pulled two long cloaks from the chest and came towards her. He shook one of them out, and swept it around her back and over her shoulders. The coarse, brown material tumbled down to her ankles. He drew two neckties under her chin, tied them there, and pulled the hood up over her hair. 

‘There,’ he said, almost grinning, squinting down at her. ‘A proper little fugitive.’ 

Sansa was about to retort when he suddenly shushed her, holding a finger up and listening intently. There was a distant, anguished cry and some scuttling feet. 

‘Battle’s getting closer,’ said the Hound under his breath. ‘Better fly.’ He gestured to the door and they slipped out.

***

Bit risky, taking her to my chamber. Catch her gawping. My room probably looks like a cell to her. Not too many mirrors and books and dried fucking flowers in here. Well, good – she needs to see that we don’t all live like her, wrapped in damned silk. I put my old cloak over her – bit better than the last time I had to cover her with one. Sick fucking bastards. My hands brush her ears as I put the hood up. As cute as a damned wolf-pup. _Wolf-pup_? Wine talking.

***

The Hound seemed to know the Keep inside out, whisking her through more corridors and down more staircases, none of which Sansa had ever set foot in before. Corridors that grew dark and musty, with lanterns set so far apart that you could barely see the next one when out of the firelight of the last. Perhaps they were servants’ quarters. 

A shout from around the corner ahead of them. The Hound stopped dead and barged his shoulder into a left-hand doorway, yanking Sansa by the arm. He pulled her into the room and quickly shut the door, pressing her back up against it. Feet clattered past the door. There was the scrape of a spear on stone and someone growling, ‘get to it, you cowards.’ 

He was still gripping her elbow and stood close against her, his chest heaving at her eye level. A clump of hair – someone else’s hair – was matted with blood to his chain mail. 

The sounds grew distant. 

Sansa tentatively looked up towards his face. He seemed to still be listening, eyes focused on the middle distance, his fingers whitening at her elbow. ‘You’re – you’re hurting me.’

The Hound quickly looked down, embarrassed, and released his grip on her. He looked thoughtful for a second, then angry. ‘Fuck this. We’ll never get out if we keep having to hide. Come on.’ 

He took a step back away from her and reached for the door handle. 

***

I shove her into the doorway at the hint of noise. My damn nerves are sparking. Could be anyone – could be the other Kingsguard cunts, sent by the boy to fetch me back, if he’d coughed his pride back up. 

Little craven. Probably getting the shit scraped from his breeches. Hiding behind a fucking imp. And then she’s telling me I’m hurting her. The thought of bruising her bony elbow gives me a pain in my gut. Or maybe that’s the wine, too.

***

As they exited the tower, a soldier dressed in a goldcloak ran right into them. 

‘Curses on you, get out of my –‘ He saw the white cloak. ‘My apologies, ser.’ He glanced at Sansa. 

She quickly dropped her eyes to the floor, hoping her cloak concealed at least some of her face. He turned sideways to let them pass. 

They reached the stables in the shadow of the Keep unnoticed. 

‘What’s that smell?’ Sansa wrinkled her nose. It was stinging, acrid - smoke mixed with something rotten. 

‘Wildfire,’ said the Hound, ducking under an arch and gesturing for her to follow. 

A boy not more than twelve was standing nervously, holding the reins of two horses. The Hound’s black destrier was snorting furiously and thudding a back hoof into the ground. The other was a light brown palfrey that moved around restlessly. They were both saddled and had bundles tied to their backs, the larger horse carrying a bow and arrowsheath. 

The boy looked up at the Hound anxiously as they approached, and passed the reins to him. ‘They don’t like it. And Stranger’s getting itchy. I fed and watered them again.’ 

‘Good lad.’ The Hound took a small bag from his belt and threw it to him. ’I’d best get if I were you’. 

‘They said I’ve got to fight,’ said the boy, his head bowed. 

The Hound looked down at him. ‘Just keep your head down, then. You’ll be alright.’ 

The boy seemed unconvinced. ‘Thank you.’ He backed away, tucking the bag of coin in his sleeve, and vanishing through a small door at the back of the stables.

The Hound turned to Sansa. ‘Ready?’ He held the reins of the mare and put his palm out. 

She placed her foot on his hand and he swiftly hoisted her up as she swung her leg over the horse, which harrumphed and jerked forwards. Sansa grabbed the reins and managed to stay upright, trying her best to calm her as the mare stamped and tossed her head. 

He eyed her. ‘You’d best ride with me if you can’t control her.’ 

‘Two horses are more use than one.’ Sansa’s firmness was slightly lessened by the horse’s jittery steps. 

‘If you say so,’ said the Hound with a grunt, mounting his destrier. He took hold of a rope that attached the two horses. ‘I’ll keep hold of you until we get out of the city.’

***

She can’t fucking ride, that’s as plain as the day. I have to lead her through the peasants, who claw at us, good as dead. The sky is the colour of a man who can’t take his drink.

Fire. If I’d known that the Imp was going to play that trick I’d have been gone days ago. Might as well have tipped me headfirst into the seven hells. Fire flooding up from the earth. The sea burning. Screaming. The hiss. There were dark men in the fire, all of them Gregor. All of them me. The sellsword laid the last one low though. I owe him, if I ever see him again.

***

Outside the Red Keep’s walls was an eerie sort of hell. They were forced to move slowly, past the crush of people, some pleading with Sansa and clutching at her ankles. Women ran past them, clutching snot-streaked youngborn, their blankets dangling. Goldcloaks moved amongst them, pushing boys and young men towards the walls nearest the Mud Gate. The boys were stumbling, trying to fix helmets, and clutching spears twice as tall as themselves. Sansa could see a green tinge in the sky over the harbour, where smoke wreathed and feathered in huge clouds, as if dragons had come to wreak their wrath. 

The Hound steered them past the Alchemist’s Hall, turning left before Fleabottom, for which Sansa was thankful. She couldn’t bear to think what it was like in the slums now. They reached the Old Gate, which was eerily quiet. Three goldcloaks of the City Watch manned it and stood to attention. 

The Hound rode right up to them, with Sansa behind, and turned his destrier to the side. ‘Open this up.’

One of the goldcloaks, the oldest amongst them, stepped forward. ‘No one passes.’

‘You know who I am?’ said the Hound in a low growl. 

‘Ay ser, I do, but they’re the King’s orders.’ 

‘I’m the Kings _guard_ , you cunt, whose orders do you think I’m acting on?’ 

‘No one told us,’ said another guard, a younger man, stepping forward to peer at Sansa. She bowed her head and shrank into her hood, but she could see that he recognised her. ‘It’s the Stark girl,’ he shouted back to his fellow guards. 

‘Anyone with eyes in their skulls can see that it’s the Stark girl,’ said the Hound, ‘and I’ve orders to get her through this gate. Now fucking open it before I open you.’ 

The older guard hesitated. There was a yell, and the younger guard had raised his sword, rushing towards the Hound and catching him in the upper arm. 

In a flash, the Hound had pulled his sword from his back and sliced open his neck. The guard gave a strangled yelp, like a dog being trodden on, and whipped sideways, crashing to the floor. The older guard came at them and the Hound’s sword curved and gashed him across the belly. He sank to his knees, then face first into the mud. 

The Hound swung off his horse and walked towards the third guard, the youngest of all, who was rooted to the spot as the Hound approached him. Sansa stilled her mare. He was small, smaller than her, and the Hound towered over him. The guard looked up in silence, abject pleading in his face. 

‘Don’t kill him,’ Sansa said under her breath. 

She shut her eyes too late. The Hound took his dagger from his belt, held the guard’s head by his helmet so that his neck was exposed, and cut his throat. 

***

It’s a mess at the gate. Was always going to be, once they recognised the bird. And now my shoulder’s a mess too - the first guard got me, deep enough to feel like an animal is hanging off me by the teeth. No time to stop and check it, though. No time to shut the Gate. Fuck it. Fuck them. Let them escape, if they can. 

***

The Hound hadn’t said a word after letting the last guard’s body slump to the ground. He had wrenched open the portcullis, and swung back onto his horse, not looking at Sansa. He had let go of her mare’s reins as soon as they were through the gate and ignored her when she had shouted to him about shutting it, merely digging his heels into his horse and galloping up the track. Sansa had turned to look back at the city walls as they reached the brow of the first hill: she could see some dark shapes emerging from the gate. People were escaping.

They rode under a cold, half-full moon, the Hound always just ahead of her, though she could tell he was riding slowly for her. She had hardly been on a horse in all her time at King’s Landing, and when she had it’d been side-saddle and at leisure. She hadn’t ridden apace since Winterfell, on her cream and grey dappled young mare, Wildflower. Arya had mocked that name. 

Ayra. As Sansa rode further away from King’s Landing, the not-knowing gave her a searing pain in her stomach. She surely wasn’t there any more, or if she was she’d died a long time ago. But Sansa just didn’t know. It was as if her sister had been swallowed up by the earth and coveted as treasure, or dissolved into air, a halfling thing, neither alive nor dead, and always just out of reach. 

They rode on, the uneven drumbeats of their horses’ hooves the only sound. 

***

The wind’s lashing. She’s keeping up, just about. The wildfire is ringing in my head. Flashes every time I blink. Men on fire. Turning their arms about, tossing fire from their fingers. Fire yelling. Got to get further away.

***

After what seemed an eternity, the Hound pulled up, his destrier breathing heavily. ‘Can you go on?’ 

Sansa was exhausted, and her inner thighs were rubbed raw. She nodded meekly. ‘How much further?’ 

The Hound jerked his head past her. ‘Until we can’t see that any more.’ 

She followed his eyes down to the valley to the dark shadow which must have been King’s Landing, many leagues away but tinged with a sickly green, rising off it like steam. 

He turned his horse and eyed the mare. ‘Keep a tight hold, she’ll do the rest.’ 

And he was off again, without a second glance at her.


	2. Chapter 2

A light the colour of sour milk was faint on the horizon when they finally stopped. Sansa could barely keep her eyes open. Her lower half felt like a pummelled straw dummy. The Hound had been right - she had clung onto her reins until her knuckles had whitened, and the mare had followed the bigger horse dutifully, even as Sansa’s chin had sagged to her chest. 

He swung off his horse and led it and her mare into a copse on the side of the track. Tying the reins, he put out his hands to help her dismount. Sansa could hardly move. She looked at him weakly. 

‘Come on,’ he said, not unkindly. 

Swallowing, she used her hands to tug her outer thigh over the saddle towards him. He pulled her ankle over so that she was facing him, gripped her by the waist and lowered her gently down, wincing slightly. He was holding his arm awkwardly. As she landed, Sansa staggered and almost fell. 

The Hound caught her by the arm and righted her, half-laughing under his breath. ‘Not ridden in a while, then?’ 

Sansa felt a flush creep up her neck. She shook her head and looked around. ‘Where are we?’ 

‘Up the kingsroad.’ He peered through the trees. A small crust of blood had hardened on his cheekbone.

‘Is it safe?’ 

The Hound glanced at her, a little impatient. ‘Nowhere’s going to be safe, girl.’ Fear pinched her throat. He straightened, drawing a breath in. ‘But this as good a place as any for now. The horses need to rest. And so do you, by the bloody looks of you.’ He pulled a rolled-up blanket from the load on the back of his horse, grimacing again as he stretched, and handed it to her. ‘Get some sleep.’ He nodded curtly to a hollow, matted with leaves, next to a great oak tree’s exposed roots. 

Here? Sansa lowered her chin, trying not to look anxious. 

‘What?’ he said. 

She bit her lip. 

‘Expecting swandown beds and lemon cakes?’ A trace of a sneer.

‘I don’t know, I – I thought there might be - inns,’ she said, feeling her cheeks redden. 

‘There might be, down the road,’ he said. ‘But it’s best to keep our heads down while we’re in easy riding distance of King’s Landing. You’re too recognisable. Go on, get.’ He nodded again to the hollow. 

Sansa clutched her blanket to her and limped over, feeling his eyes on her back. She deliberately didn’t look over again, instead wrapping the blanket as best she could around herself and lying down. The ground was slightly damp and its chill pressed on her hips. She made a hood of the top part of the blanket and curled up, wrapping her arms around her and gazing up at the sky, which was grey-blue, uncertain. 

An empty wood full of shadows and no one but _him_. She was at his mercy. He might do anything. Oh Gods. She prayed that she’d made the right choice - that staying in King’s Landing would be too treacherous, that she’d be as good as dead had she stayed. _Worse_ than dead. She shivered, and despite herself, felt her eyelids begin to grow heavy. 

***

She’s drooping in the saddle, not much more than a dress hanging on a line. I swing her by the ankle, lift her down – how can she have blood and bones in her, when she’s so light?

Her face pinches when it dawns on her that we’re sleeping out here. Probably imagined me bloody waiting on her hand and foot at inns as big as castles. That’s not going to happen. Out here, we’re going to be even. She’s going to learn the way other people live – _real_ people. 

She curls up like a hedgehog – ha, that’s good, I could nose her, roll her about and get a mouthful of spikes, probably. Right there she is, out with me in the middle of bloody nowhere. Doesn’t seem quite real. I’d laugh, if my shoulder didn’t hurt so bloody much.

Course she wasn’t expecting to be holed up out here. But I wasn’t going to tell her that on the way out, was I? It’s true what I’ve said – too bloody dangerous by half – but – 

Gods, I feel fucking hollow. Like my insides have been scraped out with an old, edged bone. Not just my guts, but all of me, everything under the skin. That bloody battle. 

I wait ‘til she’s asleep, have a look at the shoulder. Fuck, it hurts. The skin’s spongey, still bleeding. Wine on the shoulder, wine down the hatch. Shirt to bind it. 

***

A quiet groan. What was he doing? His armour and mail was clinking gently. Sansa quietly turned over to look at him from underneath her blanket-hood. The first wisps of dawn. He was sitting up against a tree, a wineskin in one hand and the armour of his left shoulder gripped with the other, trying to pull it free. He was trying to stifle his sounds, but he was obviously in pain. 

The Hound loosened one of the leather buckles, working it slowly, and froze, jerking his head to look at her.

She clenched her jaw and made herself keep her eyes on him. ‘Are you - hurt?’ 

‘Go to sleep.’ He looked away. 

Sansa remembered the fight at the Old Gate with the goldcloaks. One of them must have struck him. She sat up, her blanket wrapped round her. ‘Let me see.’ 

‘Go to sleep.’ He sounded more threatening this time.

‘Why didn’t you say something?’ 

‘I didn’t want you fussing.’ He took a swig from his wineskin, exhaling heavily. ‘Which is what you’re doing now.’ 

‘Is it deep? Won’t it need dressing?’ 

He turned his face away from her. ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head.’ A thin skein of nastiness in his voice.

‘I _should_ worry,’ said Sansa, feeling bold. ‘If you die, then who is going to take me to Winterfell?’ 

A half-snort. ‘Believe me, it takes more than a pinprick in the arm to kill me.’ 

She could see that there was pain underneath the bravado. ‘Please.’ She began to get up. ‘Let me help.’ 

‘Leave me be, girl,’ said the Hound, more brutally. ‘You’re worse than a fucking septa’.

The words bit. She lay back down, deliberately facing away from him. He was so horrible. Why was he being like this when only hours beforehand – although it already seemed like days - he’d been promising to keep her safe? 

After a few minutes, she heard the Hound shifting slowly and the shake of his mail again. He was breathing heavily, trying to keep his grunts quiet. She remained utterly still, exhaustion beginning to work over her in waves, and shut her eyes to the repeated slosh of wine in its skin.

***

She wants to help. Ay, come on then bird, I think, come over here and suck on it, that’ll bloody make me feel better. I shrug her off and this time I know she’s asleep. Her breath’s rattling, a little dry leaf caught on a fence wire. Now I know what she sounds like when she sleeps. Just think on that. 

Gods, but it feels bloody strange being out here. Not the woods, I’ve done enough of that in my time, but – being _away_. Away from there. I can still hear the sounds. Flesh crackling, and steel, rings of it, and stone crunching bone. And _fire_.

Wine. Head’s fucked too, now. Gods.

***

She couldn’t have slept more than a few hours. The morning light was queasy and a mist that was almost rain clung to the trees. Sansa’s limbs were stiff with cold. Her stomach cramped with the dull ache of hunger. She stretched out slowly and carefully, wiggling her numb toes, and rolled over. 

The Hound was asleep, sitting up against the same tree trunk. He looked terrible. His mouth hung open and his hair was bedraggled, stuck to his face with the damp of the morning and the blood. He’d removed his armour and chainmail and was dressed only in his breeches, shirt and boots. The Kingsguard cloak covered his legs and his sword lay across his lap. He looked smaller without his armour, though his shoulders were still broader than almost anyone’s. Torn material had been wrapped around his left shoulder and chest, the centre of which was dark with blood. It wouldn’t kill him, she could see that, but it didn’t look good. 

She needed to relieve herself. She arose as quietly as she could, keeping the blanket wrapped around her, and stole quietly further into the copse, trying to ignore her throbbing, saddle-sore inner thighs, looking for a place hidden from him.

***

I wake up feeling like Stranger’s lying on my skull, gnawing at my shoulder thinking I’m an apple. My gut’s churning. Haven’t slept off enough of that Dornish slop yet. 

Fuck, though - she’s gone. Leaves flattened, a little bird-hedgehog-shaped wax seal in the mud. Fuck. She wouldn’t, would she? What, I get her out of the gate and far enough away and she legs it? She’s come to her senses and realised that nesting in the woods with a murderous half-faced dog isn’t her idea of fun? 

No, wait – her horse is still here. The bags. I have a look. That stupid doll, jewels – what, couldn’t live without a few bits of shiny fucking metal? – dress, stockings, underdress. I finger that last one. Gods man, put it away. Find her.

***

The wood was so quiet. There was no birdsong, or branches rustling. Only a thickly chilled silence. 

Anyone could be out here. Soldiers fighting for the Starks or the Lannisters, bandits, or hungry paupers who’d fled through the open gate at King’s Landing after they’d ridden away. 

Sansa pulled her dress up over her knees, hardly daring to look around, and crouched down. She willed herself to go quickly, feeling exposed and vulnerable. As she shook herself, she stiffened. It was as if the wolf-sense was in her. There was no sound but she felt the hairs on her arms and legs rise and her neck prickle. She held her breath and kept her hands close to her ankles, her dress still hovering around her knees.

A crunch of a twig underfoot and in a heartbeat someone was very near her. With a cry, Sansa whipped Shae’s bound dagger from its ankle hoop, stood up, wheeling around, and stabbed wildly at the hand that was in the air in front of her.

‘ _FUCK_!’

Too late, she saw what she had done. The Hound gave a ragged cry, staggering back and looking bewilderingly at his palm. He cursed again, his voice echoing around the wood. Blood began to drip at his wrist. 

Sansa looked at him in horror, mouth open. And she ran.

***

Little bitch. My fucking sword hand, right under the thumb. _Fuck_ , hurts as bad as the shoulder. So, she’d tucked a blade away and was willing to use it. Mayhaps she was always planning to, if I got too close. The hells was she doing out there? Looking for five-leaf fucking violets? She’s more like that runt sister of hers than I thought. 

I can see the damned tendons in there. Maybe I’ll rip the thumb off, give it to her as a present, a reward for stabbing me so bloody hard. 

I hope she comes back.

***

Sansa didn’t run far. She knew she couldn’t continue on her own in these wildlands. Sobbing, she slowed, and stopped, leaning over to pant. The dagger was still clenched tight in her fingers. Nearly half of the blade had a thin sheen of blood. _His blood_. It must have gone almost right through his hand. Oh Gods, what had she done? She turned and retraced her steps, picking up the blanket she’d dropped on the way.

He was sitting there, where he’d slept, his back to her. She placed one foot in front of the other as slowly as she could.

‘You’ve a fucking nerve.’ 

Sansa stopped dead. He didn’t turn round. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. Her breath seemed to have stopped somewhere at the top of her ribs.

‘Come to finish me off?’ 

She couldn’t tell how angry he was. His hair hung over the burnt side of his face. She took a tentative step forward and took a deep breath. ‘From the bottom of my heart –‘ 

He cut her off. ‘Save your fucking fancy words, alright?’ He was holding his hand up at his chest. ‘Come here.’ 

She wavered, a bruising fear in her throat.

‘Come _here_ ,’ he said again, more threateningly. 

Sansa stepped up to him, waiting for – she didn’t know what. Maybe that was it. She’d gone too far, attacking him. He wouldn’t forgive her in a hurry. Maybe he’d kill her now, make it easier to get further on his own. Her heart hammered. 

He looked up at her sidelong, inscrutable. ‘Planning to use that again, are you?’ He nodded at the dagger. She shook her head. ‘Give it here.’ 

She wilted and held out her hand. 

The Hound quickly took the dagger with his good hand and placed it, with the blade flat, underneath his legs. ‘Gods, girl, what were you doing out there?’ he said, more animatedly angry. ‘I wake up and you’re gone. I thought you’d been stolen by brigands, or worse. Fuck’s sake.’ 

Sansa blushed. ‘I was just – I had to -’ She looked down at the ground. 

He suddenly understood, and closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Well, you didn’t need to go wandering so far into the damned woods. I’ll not fucking bite. Unlike you.’ He exhaled a sudden, sour laugh. ‘You’re a Stark and no mistake.’

She flushed and looked down at her feet. ‘I’m so truly sorry, I didn’t know it was you, I – panicked.’ 

‘Oh that’s what it was, then? Didn’t look like panic to me. King’s Landing didn’t leach all the wolfblood from you, did it? Damn near crucified me.’ 

She looked down at his hand. ‘Does it – does it hurt?’ 

‘ _Ay_ , it hurts.’ The first word was drawn out, like a blade slowly coming out of its scabbard. ‘Reckon you’d flinch a bit if someone speared your palm right through.’ He held it up for her to see. 

There was a deep crescent-shaped gash in the middle of his hand, curving around the bottom of his thumb. Blood had trailed down his wrist and between his fingers. 

He leant towards her, his voice dropping to a near-growl. ‘That’s my sword hand.’ 

Her mouth drooped. ‘Please ser, let me help.’

‘Enough of your sers.’ He sniffed. ‘I need to get to some water. Clean this all up.’ He gestured to his shoulder. ‘Some good I’m going to be. Get me some food.’ He nodded to his stallion’s saddlebag. 

Sansa walked over to the horses. They were filthy from the muddy ride away from the city. The stallion stamped a hoof and moved away as she reached to the bag on the ground. She pulled out bread and apples, her muscles tense, and took them over to the Hound, not daring to make eye contact. 

He tore some chunks off the bread with his uninjured hand, using his knees to hold it, and handed her a piece. ‘Eat.’

She sat down a few feet away, her feet folded under her skirts. She kept her eyes on the ground, and chewed glumly. The bread was slightly stale. 

‘Where did you get that damned blade?’ he asked, his mouth full. 

Sansa hesitated, knowing he wouldn’t like the answer. ‘Shae gave it to me’. 

He exhaled sharply. ‘Ay, and I should have known. That vicious bitch.’ 

The insult stung. ‘Don’t call her that. She was just trying to protect me. She was the only one –‘ she looked at him, and then down at her bread. ‘She was one of the only ones who looked out for me.’

The Hound eyed her more curiously. ‘You know she is Tyrion’s bitch, don’t you?’ 

She almost laughed. ‘What? That’s slander. She was my lady’s maid.’ 

He scoffed. ‘ _Maid_. She was no maid. He tried to keep it under his sleeve but I knew. Saw her creeping into his chambers of an evening after leaving you, and not coming out. Sly imp. All I had to do was mention it to the queen and that girl would have had been a bloody head on a spike.’ 

‘So why didn’t you?’ She refused to accept it.

He looked at her more thoughtfully. ‘I think he put her with you to keep you safe. And it worked, didn’t it? She would have put my eyes out last night given half the chance.’

Surely it was fiction. Her Shae, bedding Tyrion Lannister? He was the kindest of the family, there was no doubt, and had come to her aid more than once. But he was so devious, and so - _small_. ‘So - they were - lovers?’ 

The Hound snorted, breadcrumbs misting the air in front of him. ‘Seven hells knows how a man that size can please a woman. But you get what you pay for, I suppose.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

He glanced at her and raised his eyebrows. 

She looked at him, puzzled. 

His shoulders dropped and he sighed, exasperated. ‘She was his _whore_ , you green girl. Were you that blind?’ 

Sansa felt her cheeks flush. Shae, a whore? It didn’t seem possible. The Hound was laughing under his breath at her. She chewed her bread angrily and glared at the ground.

After a few more moments, with the only sound the Hound chomping unselfconsciously on an apple, he shifted, looking at his injured hand. ‘Right. We need to move.’ 

She got up quickly and waited for his instruction. 

He looked at her. ‘You need to get out of that.’ 

Get _out_ of it? Sansa looked down at her grey-blue gown and back at him in a panic. 

She saw a hint of light in his eyes as he registered her confusion. ‘Did you bring another?’ She nodded. ‘Go on, then.’ 

She went to her bundle, pulled out the brown woollen dress and looked around nervously. 

‘Go on,’ he insisted, nodding to the large oak beneath which she had slept. A last chomp of apple, the entire core disappearing into his mouth, ‘Don’t fucking stab anyone.’ 

It was just wide enough to conceal her from him. She loosed the cloak and reached for the ties at the back of her neck, struggling slightly. It was awkward. Shae normally did this. As quickly as she could, she eased off the dress over her smock, stepped out of it, and pulled herself into the brown dress, hoping that the Hound couldn’t see her. Gods, she didn’t dare look. She managed to do it up at the back and emerged, walking back over to him.

The Hound looked up at her, his face impassive. ‘Better. But you still look like a damned highborn to me.’ 

Sansa smoothed the dress down with her hands and looked at him. ‘I can’t help it,’ she said, slightly defiantly. 

‘Maybe I need to give you a few cuts and bruises. Roll you around in the mud a bit.’ He was unsmiling. Sansa glared at him. His mouth twitched slightly, and he nodded at the other gown draped over her hand. ‘I need that.’ 

She handed it to him, puzzled. He put the hem of the skirt between his teeth and pulled. She gave a sharp breath in as the material tore, a jagged sound, startlingly loud. ‘What are you _doing_?’ 

The Hound didn’t reply, continuing to rip off a long strip and then wrapping it around the palm and thumb of his wounded hand, and then holding it up to inspect his handiwork. ‘There. Might as well have a pretty bandage for it.’ 

That was one of her favourite dresses. She knew he was doing it to punish her, but steeled herself not to give him any satisfaction. ‘It does look _very_ pretty,’ she said. 

He looked at her with a mixture of scowl and smile. ‘Brush the horses down and pack all this up,’ he said, gesturing to the blankets and food. 

She did as she was bid. The Hound rolled up his white cloak and kicking piles of leaves and earth to one side to make a small well in the ground, before placing it there and roughly covering it up. The mare nuzzled into Sansa’s hand, and she brushed her down with a piece of rough sackcloth. When she looked over again, she could see the Hound cursing as he tried to manoeuvre himself into his armour. 

The destrier snorted as she approached him. He was so huge. One kick and she’d be brained. 

‘Go on.’ The Hound had walked up behind her, a leather strap of his armour still loose.

Sansa eyed the horse nervously. ‘He doesn’t like me.’

‘You’re looking affrighted, that’s why. He respects a steady hand.’ 

Sansa put a hand out tentatively and placed it on the horse’s neck. She could feel the great muscles tense but kept her hand flat there. The Hound handed her an apple. She swallowed and held it out to the stallion, who exhaled noisily at her, exploring the air in front of her hand, before taking a step closer and biting into it with an alarmingly loud crunch, his huge lips pared back. Her heart was hammering. 

‘You’ll always win Stranger round with an apple.’ The Hound patted him forcefully on the flank. 

Stranger. That’s what the stable boy had said. Of course. There’d be no gentle names for the Hound’s horse. It was just like him.

They saddled them both, Sansa helping the Hound as best she could, him wincing at every move. 

He looked at his hand and his other injured shoulder, and gestured to her mare. ‘You’d best get on her yourself.’

Sansa tried to swing herself up, but the mare moved uneasily and she slid off. She tried unsuccessfully twice more, her cheeks growing angrily red as the Hound watched her, amused. Finally, she walked the mare to a tree with a gnarled, protruding root at knee height, and used it to hoist herself higher before clambering in a very unladylike manner onto her horse.

The Hound swung himself onto his destrier, groaning slightly. ‘Let’s go’. 

He began to move off, and Sansa brought up her reins, wondering what he’d done with her dagger. 

‘And girl?’ The Hound didn’t turn round. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘You owe me. I’ll have a favour off you one of these days.’

***

Alright, so I have should have remembered that she still pisses and shits and breathes just like the rest of us. Should probably not have crept up on her like Varys in his fucking silk slippers. Still. She’s as jumpy as an untrained filly. 

I’m keeping that whore’s dagger. Couldn’t help enjoying her face, when I told her about her maid, whoring herself to the Imp. How could she not have known? So damned trusting. Seeing the good in everyone, even when there’s none there. It’s like two halves of beetroot have been rubbed on her cheeks.

Could’ve made her change her dress right in front of me. I can see her arms in that white slip from behind the tree. All I’d need to do is pull her elbows back, and – 

She doesn’t like it, her dress, she’s pulling a face, but she still looks better than any of them. Pulls another face when I tear her other dress for a bandage. Serves her right. I can’t just let her stab me and go soft on her. I rescued her and she slices my fucking hand in two.

I dump the white cloak. That’s the end of my time serving, right there, the flapping skin of a month-old corpse. Twenty fucking years. And for what? Free board and food and plenty of men’s blood under my nails. Fucking Kingsguard – it was an insult rubbing shoulders with those bog-faced cunts, watching them hit her and get hard doing it. I had to curl my fists into leadballs and chew my cheek ‘til it bled whilst the boy licked his lips. 

Rampant little fuck. He had been starting to get out of control, whores coming out of his chamber barely able to walk or speak or see. The thought of her being wedded – _bedded_ – to him had made me more sick than wine ever could. He’d have ruined her – that face she’d slap on, the one like a statue, wouldn’t have lasted long once she was queen. She doesn’t know how lucky she is.

She’s scared of Stranger – who isn’t? – but she has a good go. She’s got spirit, that’s true enough, and he slobbers all over her hand. He likes apples, I tell her. 

Me and him both.


	3. Chapter 3

They rode north on the road they had left at dawn, slowly and in silence. Before long they branched off, taking a smaller path. Sansa felt very exposed in daylight, even in her plain dress and the Hound’s cloak, but they encountered no one. A small, flashing river appeared alongside them, veering off away from the track. They followed it until it became shallow, and dismounted.

The Hound tied Stranger’s reins to a large oak. ‘Clean yourself up.’ He half-nodded at the brackish water.

Sansa shrugged. ‘I’m alright.’

He looked at her impatiently. ‘There’ll not be a hot bath every evening on the road, you know.’

‘I know.’ She felt indignant. ‘I know you think I’m a spoilt little girl but I’m not. I’m fine.’ 

The Hound grunted. ‘Suit yourself.’ He began to shrug off his armour awkwardly. 

Sansa led her mare to a grassy, gently shelving bank with a small curve of hard mud beach. Her horse dipped her head gratefully, shuddering into it, and began to drink. Sansa stroked her neck where the muscles quivered, weaving her fingers through the matted mane, the colour of barley. 

She was so tired. Her buttocks and legs were achingly sore from riding, but they had to go on. She refused to give him the satisfaction of complaining about anything - her drab dress, the stale bread, the cold, and her aching legs. She would prove him wrong about her, that she wasn’t a prissy, cosseted lady. That she was a Stark, just like he’d said.

Splashing sounds made her glance round. The Hound was sitting in his shirt and breeches on the low bank, legs in the river, bringing water up to his face and gasping into it. His armour was on the grass. He began to pull off his shirt and Sansa quickly turned back to her mare, feeling her cheeks flush. He had so little decorum, bold as anything out there in the open. 

She scratched the neck of her horse and hummed a shred of a lullaby very quietly to herself. Something her mother used to sing to her, a long time ago. _The stars are out tonight, my love, as I walk under the boughs_. The mare’s thirst sated, she led her back to the trees, keeping her eyes on the ground. Tying her to the tree next to Stranger, she went to the stallion’s reins. He whickered slightly, but she resolutely walked him to the river, trying not to show her fear. In the corner of her eye, the Hound was re-wrapping the old shirt he’d used as a bandage around his shoulder, a pale slab, again. He was cursing under his breath.

Stranger seemed to want to drink the entire river, but she pulled him away after filling the waterskins up and led him back to her mare. As she tied him to the oak, he rolled his eyes at her and snorted. She breathed a rush of air through her nose right back at him, making his ears twitch. 

Sansa touched his neck carefully. ‘You’re not so bad, are you, Stranger?’ 

She turned back to the bank. The Hound had pulled his shirt back on and seemed to be sitting very still. She felt so guilty. His _sword_ hand. He could have been anyone, though. Why had he been creeping up on her like that? 

As she scuffed her feet on the ground, she noticed a flash of deep orange in the bushes next to the oak tree. Jewelweed. The muted green leaves harbouring little flowers shaped like bell sleeves, bright red in the centre. It had healing properties – Maester Luwin had liked to teach her about plants and herbs; she’d even embroidered jewelweed flowers after studying some in the weirwood. 

She knelt down and picked a few clumps, flowers too, and mashed them in her fists. Pulling out her violet dress from her mare’s saddlebag, she took a deep breath and walked over to him.

The Hound was starting to wind the bandage he’d made with the hem of her dress back round his wounded hand. He’d washed off the blood from his palm and wrist. 

Sansa stood at his shoulder. ‘You should - have a fresh one.’

He glanced round and up at her, suspicious, before turning back to the river. ‘Ay, if you like.’

She turned her dress upside down and looked at the torn hem. Well, it was ruined now anyway. Putting the frayed edge between her teeth, she bit down hard and pulled it, as he had done, loudly ripping off a long strip, and knelt down on the bank next to him. 

She opened her hand, crumpled jewelweed slowly springing back out into her palm. The juice trickled down her little finger. ‘Also – you should put this on it.’ 

The Hound gazed at her, and then at her outstretched hand in faint surprise. ‘What are you now, a _maegi_?’ 

‘It should soothe the pain a little,’ Sansa said, as firmly as she dared. ‘Our maester taught me.’ 

He raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘First you stab me, then you want to patch me up. How do I know that’s not poisonous?’ 

‘I need you to get me to Winterfell,’ Sansa said, with quiet resolution. ‘I’ll poison you once I’m back home.’ 

He shot her a dark, amused look. 

Without really thinking, she took up his hand. He stiffened, his expression turning to one of wariness and mild alarm. She held it palm upwards, with her own hand - so much smaller and paler than his - beneath it, and bunched the ball of mulched jewelweed against the large, rude cut that curved round his thumb. 

Holding the leaves there with her thumb, she took the new strip of her dress in her other hand and leant down to the river to soak it. As she did, she could feel his arm muscles tense to hold her there, though he didn’t visibly move. Sansa hung there for a moment, keenly aware of the perfect weighting, her over the edge of the river and him on the bank, her thumb and fingers around his hand. His whole frame holding her up. She tightened her grip to pull herself back towards him and began to wrap the wet bandage diagonally around his hand, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her work. 

Something had changed. His breathing was long and quiet, and she felt his eyes move up to her face. She wound the rag around his thumb, tucked its end under the main bandage and folded her hands down at her lap. He continued to hold his hand in the air, a big dark palm slung with faded violet flowers. 

‘There.’ Sansa looked up to meet his gaze. She couldn’t tell what it meant - a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and something else, darker. 

The unburnt side of his face was turned towards her - he hadn’t done much of a job of washing it. Feeling brazen and aware of how yielding he’d suddenly become, she reached round to take up her damaged dress and quickly tore off another scrap of material. She leant back again to the river to wet it and put it up to his face. 

The Hound flinched then, jerking backwards in a tiny movement as if he’d been slapped.

Sansa pulled back her hand. ‘It’s just – you’ve still got blood on your face.’ 

Whilst he didn’t move, she could see his shoulders lower just a little, and he kept his cheek turned to her. She lifted the rag again, and, her heart throwing itself at her ribcage, began to dab very gently at his eyebrow. He kept totally still, his eyes fixed fiercely on the river. 

She shifted her knees a little closer to him, to clean his cheekbone and the side of his nose. ‘Can you –‘ He looked at her. His eyes were just inches from hers. They burned. ‘The other side,’ Sansa said, as delicately as she could. 

The river turned in and over itself. The Hound slowly turned the burnt side of his face towards her, looking down at her knees. 

It was the first time that she had really, properly, looked at it. The skin was marbled white and red, stretched taut in places and sunken in others, and angrily shiny. A clump of hair was stuck to his temple with dark, dried blood. Sansa gingerly used her other hand to pull it away, her sleeve brushing his forehead. She had to tug it more than once and was sure that it must hurt, but he didn’t move. 

She wiped the blood clean in two short swipes and lowered her hands. ‘There.’ 

He raised his brown-grey eyes up to her, his face still turned downwards. He looked almost vulnerable. 

She smiled. ‘You look a little less monstrous.’ She wished the words back as soon as she’d uttered them. They hung in the air. 

His eyes steeled and the Hound returned. ‘A _little_ less.’ 

‘A _lot_ less,’ she said quickly, hopelessly. 

He got up, grabbing his wineskin and taking a swig, before jamming the cork back in and stalking back to the horses.

***

What the fuck just happened? She goes from jabbing me to washing my face in riverwater like a damned maidservant. She was right – _there_ , squashing flowers into my hand, touching my bad side, my burns, calm as a battle-nurse. And I was – _letting_ her. Could bloody feel her breath on my cheek. And then she tells me - she might have well have kneed me in the balls. Tried to make up for it but I know what she meant. She’ll always see me as a monster, nothing more, just as long as I have this face. Course she will. It’s all anyone does.

I’ve had dreams where I’m clawing it off, peeling back layer after layer only to find more of it underneath, never-ending, raw, thick as staghide. Father paid someone to make me a mask and then said I looked more of a fool, that I’d have to wear my burns with honour. _Honour_ – as if I’d won them in battle and not at Gregor’s hands. I’ve used it as a weapon, and it works too, but that means I get men, women, children all reeling back just when I’ve come to get oats or a new belt or my sheets washed. What I am going to do, fucking _melt_ on them?

We get back on the horses and I stalk on ahead, my shoulder clean but still stinging like buggery. My hand too – every time I tighten the reins it’s like she’s stabbing me right there again. Well, she might as well be.

Less monstrous. For fuck’s fucking sake.

***

They rode without talking for most of the day. The Hound almost never turned round. Every time Sansa remembered what she had said, she bit on her tongue, hard. She was an idiot. She’d got him to soften, just for a moment, and ruined it. 

They stopped in the middle of the afternoon to rest the horses. The Hound wordlessly passed her some salt beef from his saddlebag and she sat some paces away from him, feeling miserable. The beef needed endless chewing. Her legs ached maddeningly. As they got back on their horses, she asked timidly what route they were taking. She had realised that she had no idea where they were. He could be taking her anywhere and she wouldn’t know the difference. 

The Hound sniffed. ‘We’re shadowing the kingsroad. It’d be madness to be out in the open on it. Too many enemies to meet.’ He seemed to read her thoughts, and looked at her bitterly. ‘Don’t worry, we’re heading north.’ He clicked his tongue to Stranger and moved off.

***

She’s hardly said a fucking word all day. Just keeps eyeing me sideways as if I’m going to bite her. She’s the one that bites. Blades and words.

She hates it out here. I don’t care. I tell her we need to stay off the Kingsroad. It’s the truth, mostly. I just want to have her to myself, just for a bit. Just to look. I can look at her even if I don’t want her to look at me ever again. Hells, her knee was touching my thigh back there at the river.

***

He obviously knew how to avoid people. They hadn’t seen a soul by the time the moon was a bright, doleful eye peeping through the trees. They came to rest in a small dell surrounded by hazel and birch trees, and the Hound instructed Sansa to find firewood. 

It was good to be further away from him and his accusatory silence for a few minutes, even if it did mean going on her own. She walked in a circle a little way from the dell gathering the driest sticks she could find, moving between the puddles of moonlight, and trying not to imagine who, or what, might be watching her from the darkness. 

When she returned, the horses were laid down for the night and the blankets unpacked. The Hound was kneeling awkwardly over a small bundle of moss and leaves, whittling a small thin stick into a flatter piece of wood, swearing quietly as the sparks failed to take. His shoulder was clearly hampering him. Sansa placed her bundle of branches down and sat down on a blanket. 

‘Get us some food, then,’ he said from his crouching position. 

Gods, he was so rude. She got up again, and found bread, cheese, and salt beef, which she looked at glumly. The pale cheese was sweating slightly now. It made her think of Lord Varys’ forehead. King’s Landing might have been a prison, but they had fed her well. Sweetmeats, cakes, cream - she hoped desperately that they’d find an inn soon.

The Hound finally started a fire. As the flames flickered, he eyed them warily, blowing on them and piling Sansa’s sticks on top, before sitting back heavily, tearing at the bread that she’d left by his side. They ate silently, both looking into the fire, Sansa seated on the other side of the flames.

He licked his fingers. Loudly. He was as uncouth as a stable boy. ‘That’s the last of it. We’ll have to find our own food tomorrow.’ 

No inns yet then. Was he going to avoid them on purpose, both so as not to encounter anyone and to punish her? Soon enough she’d be sinking her teeth into raw deer flesh like a proper direwolf.

‘Cat got your tongue, girl?’ 

Sansa looked up at him, her chin resting on her knees, which she was hugging tightly to her chest. ‘I don’t have anything to say.’ 

The Hound snorted. ‘I find that hard to believe’. 

She stared into the fire. His silent treatment of her was obviously over for the day. Fine. She’d talk to him. ‘Did Joffrey know that you left?’ 

He took a swig from his wineskin, which never seemed to run out. ‘Ay, reckon he did.’ 

‘What did he say? He didn’t _let_ you go?’ 

‘He didn’t say much. But I did tell him to fuck himself.’ 

Sansa breathed in slowly, feeling something close to admiration. To have seen Joffrey’s face. But - his wrath would be terrible. 

The Hound read her thoughts. ‘He had it coming. I was too long in that place.’ 

All the awful things he must have done under Joffrey’s command. Killing Ayra’s butcher boy. The battle, and so many others. But - he hadn’t been forced. He could have gone at any time. She went to speak, but hesitated. 

‘Go on,’ he said, a slight provocation in his voice. ‘What else?’ 

‘At the Gate. Why did you kill that last guard? You didn’t have to.’ 

‘Didn’t I?’ A trace of menace. He wanted to scare her. 

‘You said to me before that killing was a sweet thing. Do you really mean that?’ 

He sniffed. ‘When you’re brought up fighting, it’s what you do best. And ay, there is satisfaction in it. Maybe one day you’ll see that.’ 

Sansa looked at him plainly. ‘I can’t see it. Not even for my enemies.’ 

‘What, so you don’t want to see Joffrey’s head on a spike? Didn’t take you for a liar.’ 

She gazed into the flames. ‘I want Joffrey dead. But I wouldn’t feel satisfied. It won’t bring my father back. Or Arya.’ 

They were silent. The sound of the fire was like someone clapping gnats on their skin. 

Sansa thought over the night of the battle. ‘Why did you come for me?’ 

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. ‘Gods, girl, is this an inquisition?’ 

‘You said you wanted me to talk.’ 

‘Ay, well, that’s enough,’ said the Hound, suddenly irritable. ‘Sleep’.

Sansa sighed, deeply. She _was_ exhausted, by the riding and lack of food, and by him, as changeable as a northern sky. That sliver of a moment by the river was long gone. 

She tucked herself up in her blanket and cloak as best she could, rolling over to remove a stone that was digging into her back and tilting back to face the fire. The warmth on her face slowed her breathing and brought her dreams.

***

Fucking fire. Haven’t had to make one for a long time. It’s like trying to feed a wild animal. And I have to get close to it. I picture my whole head aflame.

I wake up suddenly in the night, thinking the fire’s become a lake, surrounding me. Throat’s like the Red Waste. I take some wine, quick. The skin’s getting lighter, too light. 

There’s a noise and she’s wriggling, feet going like mad against the leaves. So she has nightmares too. Suppose she’s had enough trouble to earn them. I walk over to her, soft. The fire’s about dead and all I can see is a bundle. She’s whimpering. My head’s swimming a bit and I feel like lying down next to her and pulling her to me and shushing her but she’ll wake up and think she’s fallen from one nightmare into another, probably. 

Fuck, this shoulder.

I _will_ keep her safe though, in my own way. I said I would. And that means feeding her too. And having something to soak up the wine in me. I’m out – should have rationed it. I’m a fool. I need it as much as she needs a blanket round her shoulders. So in the morn I sit and wait at the bottom of the field where I’d seen hares last night. It’s early enough for there to be a mist dawdling over the grass, like the ghosts of fresh soldiers. 

My bow arm’s fucked now, but we need to eat. Not done much archery training – my place has always been with the scrappers in the swordsyard, trying to find someone who can match me. The Kingslayer is one – wonder what state _his_ sword hand is in right now. 

Those fucking Lannisters - what a family. A tyrant with my brother at his bidding, a cross-eyed dwarf, a brother and sister who definitely know each other too well and a boy who’s the spawn of them both. As soon as I heard it spoken of I knew it to be true. There’s not a breath of the drunk king on him. The little ones are probably theirs too, hair like cornfields, not that they’re twisted in the head like him. Not yet. There’s still time. Though maybe it’s different when you’re raised to be a king – 

There’s one. Wait ‘til it’s closer. I’m not chasing arrows all morning. That’s what squires are for. Maybe I should get the bird to squire for me instead of leaving her all wrapped up, face scrunched like she’s thinking too hard. 

Now – let’s see what my left arm’s aim is like.

***

Sansa woke up with her teeth chattering. The fire was a mass of black, withered sticks. Opposite, there was a bundle of blanket and dark cloak where the Hound had slept. 

She sat up quickly. The horses were both there, lying down, their tails switching. He couldn’t have gone far. She stood up, rubbing her numb legs and arms. The cold was in the marrow of her bones. It almost burnt. She had dreamt of Lady and Nymeria, padding side by side through a silent, snow-laden forest, ravens in their mouths. The ravens were squawking ‘stop! STOP!’ at her in wizened voices like Old Nan’s, even as the wolves crunched their bones. She shuddered at the memory, stamping her feet on the hard ground, jumping up and down to try and pound her toes back into life. 

‘Someone needs a dancing master.’ The Hound was walking up from behind her, with two hares slung over his good shoulder. 

Sansa stopped and eyed them slightly queasily. ‘Where did you get those?’ 

He looked at her nonchalantly. ‘Magic.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ll show you next time,’ he said with half a grin, and waggled one of them at her. ‘Want to break your fast?’ 

Sansa shook her head hurriedly. ‘I’m not hungry.’ 

The Hound slung them both into his saddlebag, guffawing. ‘You will be later.’

Great. This was the sort of life Arya would thrive off. Trapping animals, sleeping in ditches, getting her hair and her skin and her face filthy and not caring. More than that - _loving_ being filthy and acting like a boy. Sansa spent the morning’s journey, her stomach grumbling all the while, dreaming of a hot bath filled by Shae, steaming with lavender oil, slick curves on the surface of the water. As she imagined sinking down, dousing her head, something caught her eye in the bushes. 

She halted her mare and slid off. Blackberries. Brambles full of blackberries. There were only clumps of red, unripe ones at the front, but glisteningly dark ones were nestled in amongst the bracken. She stretched onto her tiptoes, hanging onto a branch, and plucked one off. It came easily, and she popped it into her mouth, closing her eyes at the little burst of intense, sweet-sharp flavour on her tongue. She began to pick.

The Hound had gone on ahead and finally trotted Stranger back to see what she was doing. Sansa turned round to him, holding the skirt of her dress in front of her in a well, it brimming with blackberries. He took her in, twitching a smile. Her hands were covered in fine scratches, threads at the front of her dress had snagged here and there on the bramble thorns, and she’d stuffed herself so full of berries she felt happily sick. 

She staggered over to him. ‘Where can I put these?’ 

He felt behind him for his saddlebag, pulled out a small sack and passed it down to her so that she could tip them in. 

He was about to fasten it behind him when Sansa put her hand on Stranger’s lower neck. ‘Wait –‘ she said. The Hound looked down at her questioningly. ‘You have to try some.’ 

He brought the sack round to his lap and grabbed a squashy handful, whilst Sansa held Stranger’s reins. He tipped the lot into his mouth in one go and crunched. 

‘Good?’ She patted Stranger. 

He nodded his approval begrudgingly. She grinned up at him and he looked at her with not a little amusement, still chewing. Suddenly, he leant down to her, put the thumb of his bandaged hand to the corner of her mouth and gently dabbed it before she knew what was happening. 

‘You’ve blackberries on you.’ He winched himself back up, and Sansa let the horse’s reins fall. 

He moved Stranger on, and she licked her own thumb and wiped the corner of her mouth. She looked at the purple stain, and then at the Hound as he rode slowly away.

***

Everything’s a bit calmer on the ride this morning. I’m doing my damndest not to snap at her, even though my hand’s still stinging to fuck. Even though she called me a monster. I keep looking round to check she’s not fallen off. She looks tired. That hair’s beginning to look like tangleweed. I like it.

She’s stopped, way back down the path. Been so damned quiet I didn’t notice straight off. What’s she doing back there? Maybe she’s taking a piss. I’ll take my time.

She looks like she’s snared in a bramble bush. And then she totters towards me, holding her skirts up. I can see her ankles. And she’s got a mouth on her like a wolf on a deer. She chucks all the blackberries in the sack I give her and I swear, it’s the first smile I’ve seen on her since – I don’t know. Before her father, maybe. And I touch the corner of her mouth where the stain’s worst before I think about why I shouldn’t and she doesn’t turn and run.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa watched the Hound and Stranger ahead of her as he ducked under low boughs in the thick wood. She seemed to exasperate him beyond measure, yet there were glimmers of a different side to him. Touching her mouth back there like that - he had done it with something approaching tenderness. Like he’d done on the bridge at King’s Landing after Ser Meryn had hit her, when she’d thought about killing Joffrey. He’d made her see that she had to play a different game. Or when he’d given her his Kingsguard cloak in the throne room. He had always been looking out for her, though she’d perhaps not always realised it. 

They picked up a rugged path, freshly grooved with the imprint of cart wheels. 

‘Might have company.’ The Hound nodded ahead of him. 

Sansa followed his gaze. Up on the brow of the small hill ahead of them a horse and cart was heading in the same direction. As they got nearer, she could see that the cart was filled with barrels. 

The Hound shifted his sword belt around so that the scabbard was near his hand. ‘My lucky day.’

‘What are you doing? Why do you need that?’ 

‘I’m having some wine off him,’ he said. 

‘You can’t just _steal_ it.’

‘I can.’ 

‘But why? It’s not yours to take’. 

The Hound craned his neck round to look at her. ‘Gods girl, what are you, my bloody conscience? I mean to have some. My wineskin is bone dry, this -’ he jerked his head down at his shoulder - ‘and _this_ -’ he jabbed his hand at her accusatorily – ‘need dulling, and I need something to get me through the nights while you’re tweeting in my bloody ear.’ 

He clicked his tongue at Stranger, who cantered on. Sansa, infuriated, spurred her mare on after him.

***

Thank fuck. I was beginning to think even I’d have to find a town or an inn soon. You can’t hunt wine with a bow and arrow. Blackberries – unless they’ve been pounded by maidens’ feet and left in a dark cellar anyway – aren’t going to do the job, picked by her or not. The cart’s come up like an answer to a prayer. The only thing I’ll ever pray for, probably. 

She’s on my back though, telling me I can’t steal it, snipping at me like I’m a child. I outride her.

***

The Hound was almost on top of the horse and cart when she caught up. The wineseller was a large man, sweating profusely. He pulled up, his horse neighing, and looked round nervously. Sansa remembered how fearsome he could look to a stranger, especially when on his huge destrier. He towered over the man and his burns raged in the sunlight. 

‘How goes it, ser?’ she heard the cart-driver ask as he squinted up at him. 

The Hound was eyeing his barrels. ‘What have you got in there?’ 

‘Ambers, from Pentos, since you ask.’ 

The Hound sniffed, looking a little disappointed. ‘Where are you headed?’ 

‘Down to the Reach, if I ever make it. Trying to avoid the city.’ He seemed to be gaining confidence. ‘Have you come from there?’

The Hound slid off Stranger, his hand hovering near his sword. Sansa hastily spurred her mare on the last few paces. 

‘Good day, ser,’ she said as brightly as she could. 

The man’s eyes swivelled round to her. ‘And to you, good lady.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’re a pretty one.’ 

The Hound’s fingers closed around the sword’s handle. ‘She’ll not look so pretty when I’ve taken both your fucking eyes out.’

The man gulped, startled. ‘N– no, no ser, I meant no offence.‘You don’t see many ladies as fine as this out on this road, is all I meant -’ The Hound narrowed his eyes. ‘By which I mean to say, I don’t want any trouble, ser -’ 

‘Can we buy some wine?’ Sansa interrupted. The Hound looked up at her. ‘Will you let us fill our wineskins? We have coin.’ She glared down at him. ‘Don’t we?’ 

He clenched his jaw, then gave the faintest roll of his eyes and reached for the coin bag on his belt. ‘Ay.’ 

With the cart rattling off behind them, and the wineseller still shouting his relieved good days to their backs, the Hound unpopped a cork with his teeth and began to drink. After the first swallow he grimaced, as if he was going to spit it out. 

Then he took several hearty gulps and wiped his mouth with a deep sigh. ‘Well, you’re nothing but bloody trouble.’ 

Sansa shook her head at him from her mare, wonderingly. ‘You don’t have to go around killing people all the time, you know. For _wine_. There are such things as being kind and polite.’ 

‘Ay, and we’ll see how far your damned pleases and thank yous get you when we bump into some Lannister freeriders.’ He looked at his wineskin and thrust it up at her. 

She ignored it. ‘Why did you come for me, if you knew I’d be so much trouble?’ 

The Hound sighed, packing his skins into his saddlebag. ‘I don’t like bullies.’ Sansa stifled a laugh, but he caught it. He’d almost grinned back, but then grew serious. ‘If we’d have won, and Joffrey remained king -’ He looked at her penetratingly. ‘I didn’t like to think of you there, without -‘ he turned back to his horse – ‘me to keep an eye on you.’ 

‘What would he have done?’ Sansa asked, as he mounted Stranger. 

‘You don’t want to know.’ 

She did, and she didn’t. ‘Did he - speak of me to you?’ 

He didn’t look at her as he spoke. ‘Trust me. I spent all my hours as his shadow. I saw all too well what sort of past-times pleased that boy. Things would have gotten a lot worse without me around. Come on.’

***

The wine-seller looks like he’d been bathing in the stuff himself, but still thinks he can spin her a line, like she’d look at him twice without heaving. But she turns on the charm and does that thing she always did at King’s Landing, _pretends_. She thinks I can’t tell when she’s pretending and when she’s not. And she makes me hand over coin to that fat shit. Looks damn smug about it, too.

It’s not even _red_ , it’s fucking straw-thin piss. Hardly tastes of anything. 

 

***

It had almost grown dark by the time they found a clucking stream to settle down beside for their camp. As Sansa returned with firewood, The Hound held up one of the hares that had hung down headfirst from Stranger’s saddle for most of the day. 

‘Time for one of these. I’ll show you how to skin it.’ 

She shifted from foot to foot. ‘Do I have to?’ 

‘Ay. If you’re going to eat it, you should learn.’ 

‘Maybe I won’t eat it, then.’ She looked at him unconfidently. 

‘And what else are you going to dine upon this evening, my lady?’ He gave her a wry glance. ‘Roast duck and figs? Almond cakes? Come on. Come and watch.’ The Hound gestured to the ground next to him. 

Sansa knew that she had little choice. She was starving. Folding her blanket up, she sat neatly on top of it, not far from his shoulder. 

He pulled out her dagger from his belt and waved it at her. ‘Next time you see that maid of yours, you can tell her this got hares _and_ hounds.’ 

Guffawing to himself, he made a little slit in the belly of the animal, drawing the dagger all the way round its middle. Sansa felt like she might throw up at any moment, but steeled herself to watch, trying to look nonchalant. She’d seen her father’s head on a spike. She could watch this. 

The Hound began to roll the fur off the back legs, revealing the marbled pink and grey flesh. He was doing most of the work with his good arm, but still moved deftly. He chopped off its head and held it by the back legs, letting the blood flow out onto the ground. She closed her eyes then, and opened them to the sickening crunch of the hare’s feet as he snapped them off, as easy as breaking twigs. Scoring the dagger down the ribcage, he put the glistening blade between his teeth to free both hands to pull at the guts, which slithered out, gleaming and brown. He pulled out the heart and lungs, giving them a good squeeze, the blood seeping down into the mud, and finally held up the hare’s lean, stricken body proudly. 

The Hound caught Sansa looking queasy and grinned. ‘Let’s eat.’

***

The wine might taste like piss but it digs a hole in my belly, somewhere to bury my thoughts. I can hear her teeth scutting together when I skin the hare and she looks yellow to the neck, but she manages to watch, at least until the head needs severing. 

That’s when she changed. A little girl, all smiles, trying hard for her golden bloody prince, wearing a dress that looks like a pale summer sky, and then she’s on the floor, her daddy’s head held in the air by Payne, and the next time she stands up, she’s different. Older. She might pretend she’s in love with the boy, but I know that she’s clinging on for dear life and it’s all a fucking game.

***

By the time they’d cooked and eaten the hare, Sansa picking carefully at the meat he’d given her, the Hound was drunk. He’d been drinking since he bought that wine, even though he didn’t like the taste that much, and glowering more with every swig. It made her want to shrink away from him. She picked herself up to ready for bed and remembered her bundle. She brought it back to the fire. It was beginning to die down, and the Hound was poking it with his feet, trying to get it going again. 

Sansa spread out her bundle on the ground in front of her and picked up her jewels, one by one. The direwolf charm, her grandmother’s, given to her on her eleventh name day. She’d never liked their sigil when she was younger, it was too rough, too wild – she’d always wanted a golden rose like the Tyrells, or the sun and spear of the Martells - but after they’d been given the wolf puppies, she’d grown to love it. She turned the heavy silver charm over in her palm and placed it carefully down again. 

She held up the filigree gold necklace that Joffrey had given her, on the day that he’d kissed her. Her only kiss. She’d sworn that he’d tasted of rosewater, had brought her fingers up to her lips for the rest of the day. For the rest of the _week_. Gods, how stupid and green she’d been, how simpering and willing to please. 

Finally, she picked up her doll, the present from Father. She could picture the hurt in his eyes when she’d got up from the table after he had given it to her, like an old dog whose master wasn’t taking it out with him. She’d been so unkind then, blinded by the glamour of the castle, wanting nothing more than to be seen as a proper lady. She held it above her lap and gazed at it, feeling her throat thicken. 

‘Aren’t you a bit old for one of those?’ The Hound was looking over the fire at her, his arms folded, amused. 

She looked at him impassively, but couldn’t keep the sadness out of her voice. ‘Father gave it to me. He was trying to be kind, after what happened with Joffrey and Lady, that’s all.’ 

‘Ay, well he misjudged a lot of things, didn’t he?’ he said with offhand spite, picking up a large stick and poking the fire. 

Sansa looked up at him furiously, but didn’t give him the satisfaction of a retort. He could be so cruel. It was maddening. She watched him rear back slightly as a flame flared up, quickly brushing his hair out of his eyes. He added more sticks carefully and sat back on his haunches. 

‘I know about your face,’ she said.

There was a pause. ‘Oh, you do, do you?’ His burnt side was in shadow. 

‘Yes.’ 

The Hound’s eyes were dark. ‘Go on, then.’ 

Sansa was feeling less bold by the second. ‘You were a boy and had taken the Mounta– your brother’s wooden toy, so he - held you in the fire.’ 

He stared fiercely into the growing flames. ‘Who told you that?’ 

‘Littlefinger. I mean, Ser Baelish. At the tourney.’ 

‘And who did you tell?’ asked the Hound, still not looking at her, his voice now edged with menace. 

‘No one! I mean, Ayra was there when he told me, and she probably heard, but I didn’t tell anyone. Why would I?’ 

The Hound breathed out, hard, his face unreadable. 

‘Why does it matter?’ 

He suddenly leant towards her, half-snarling. ‘Why does it matter? I’m the _Hound_. People are afraid of me because they think _this_ -’ he jabbed a finger towards his face - ‘is a battle scar, not the mark of a whimpering little boy. If they knew, I’d be a fucking laughing stock.’

Sansa realised that she wasn’t afraid of him anymore and never would be. ‘No one knows. No one else. I promise.’ She looked at him unflinchingly. ‘What he did to you -’ The Hound’s shoulders lowered and he looked wounded. ‘He - he is the cruellest man I’ve ever heard of.’ She stopped, thinking of Joffrey. But even Joffrey wouldn’t do that to his own kin, to Tommen, or Myrcella. 

The Hound took a long breath in, his chest expanding slowly, and turned to face the fire again, the light flickering on his face. ‘Once I get you back home, I’ll kill him,’ he said to the fire. 

Sansa couldn’t find a reply. She realised that this was something he’d intended to do for many years, waiting for the right time. He looked fiercely pensive and suddenly more human than she’d ever seen him before. Those burns had been his brother’s curse on him - he’d never be rid of them, but he could be rid of the man who’d given them to him. She watched the rough spit he’d made blacken above the fire.

‘Are you – burnt all over?’ she asked, immediately wishing that she hadn’t. 

The Hound leaned over, vicious. ‘Want to see?’ 

Sansa felt her neck flush but held his eyes resolutely for a moment, enough to see them cloud slightly with guilt, before she turned her face away. ‘You don’t need to be so horrible.’ 

He was silent. She knew he couldn’t say sorry. He was too proud. It was ridiculous. 

‘You shouldn’t drink so much wine. It’s the wine that makes you say such horrible things, like killing is the sweetest thing, or that you want me to sing, or – or -’ She sighed, and looked up at him angrily. She didn’t care if he was cruel to her again. She would say her piece. It came out in a rush. ‘And don’t say it’s because you’re the Hound, because that’s no excuse. You don’t have to be like that to me. Not anymore. It’s just - _me_. Why would you want me to be frightened of you when you wanted to rescue me? It doesn’t make sense. You don’t need to punish me. I know you think I’m just a stupid little girl, but I’m trying to be better, and I’m so grateful to you for getting me away from there, I really am. Just - stop being so mean.’ 

She picked herself up, with her doll, moving as far away from him as she could whilst still being in the firelight, and lay down with her back to him. She couldn’t believe that she was still wearing the same dress that she had been in for two days and nights. She felt filthy, hungry and cold, even with the fire. She was furious at the tears that pricked her eyes as she squeezed them shut. Gods, she wished she was at Winterfell, with her mother, and the Maester, and Old Nan, and her brothers, and Arya. She missed Arya so much. She hugged her doll to her chest, its straw edges poking into her skin.

‘Sansa.’ 

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. He said it so quietly from over at the other side of the fire that she thought maybe she’d imagined it. She opened her eyes, holding her breath, lying still. 

‘It was only my face. My brother. He just held my face down.’ 

She waited for more, but none came. She closed her eyes.

***

She’d been sitting there, on the other side of the fire, legs folded under her as perfectly as a fresh pile of laundry, thumbing her jewels, like they’re more precious than living is, like they’re not just scraps of bashed-in metal. And there I’d been, looking at her looking at her jewels. 

And then she’d picked up her doll and all I saw was a damned child. Well, she needs to grow up. Though maybe I shouldn’t have said what I did about her father. Words come out faster than a bolting horse sometimes. And she pays me back and gives me the story of my face – Baelish, that _cunt_ – as if she’s always known it, as if everyone knows it, as if there’s a fucking broadside ballad with it on, nailed into tree trunks all over Westeros. 

I feel like she’s fucking stripped me and is looking at me, unimpressed. So I tell her I’ll kill Gregor – and I will – and she looks like she cares, like she’d kill him too if she saw him. And I think about that, about what he’d try to do to her if he ever saw her, and what I’d do to him before he got near her, fucking pull his guts out of his throat and wrap them round his thick fucking bullneck and then she asks me if I’m burnt all over and I think of her sneering at me naked and say it all wrong again. And she gives me a mouthful that I deserve, probably. She makes me feel worse than a dog - a horsefly, and I feel shamed. 

I’m not used to kindness. It itches. I say sorry, in my own way, once she’s over there and giving me the shoulder and not that look that's a winter rainfall coming.

Gregor. The biggest ghost of them all. He leaves great hoofprints all over the country, men and women bleeding in his wake, and people think I’m him too. _This_ is Gregor, this face is his dirty great handprint, him shouting at everyone from my cheek. He branded me with his black fucking heart.

And in the winefog as I go to sleep I suddenly remember that I used her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GoT star-spot fun for you: Thoros of Myr at a concert, Gendry at a swimming pool and my friend saw Ser Jorah in park riding a bike which pulled along a buggy with a small child in it. AW!


	5. Chapter 5

_Sizzling and his hand there on my ear and I’m there for a lifetime fingers reaching through my skull and the deafening crack and I’m up and I see skin on the logs – my ear – and all I hear is me, melting._

I wake up shivering, my teeth rattling around. The cold and the wine. And the dreams.

***

There was no more talk of his face, or his brother. They began another day of of riding, stopping at streams to fill their skins and feed the horses, resting. Sansa was trying to get used to feeling constantly filthy, though was horrified at the tangled mess her hair seemed to have become and ran her fingers through it when ever she had the chance. Her thighs were raging less from the constant bump of the saddle on her mare, who she’d named Sorrel. Probably out of sheer hunger. 

She looked for food everywhere, her sense of smell sharpened, keenly eyeing the dark corners of bushes, or looking over her head. Clumps of pungent wild garlic, small, bitter apples as pink as scrubbed cheeks, even some mushrooms. He never said anything, just watching her as she filled her saddlebag or just ate straight away, apart from to warn her off the tiny hard berries, hanging like bright rubies, over their heads.

***

I keep my head down. Probably best if I don’t open my mouth, just so I can avoid that look on her face like she’s Mother, Maiden and Crone rolled into one. I do have to stop her stuffing her mouth full of black bryony though. That would have been a sight, the bird heaving up poisonberries onto her skirts. 

She’s got a stomach on her – half the time she’s in the bushes or hanging off a branch. I like her like this. Dress grubby, mud under her fingernails, eyes keen, not looking for bows and scrapes and chances to curtsey. Not pretending. 

I like how straight she sits it the saddle, hair as bright as a torch in the night. She almost falls off grabbing some apples for us, and I think about eating one out of her hand. Just wish she’d stop calling me ‘ser’ all the time – she might as well just poke me in the ear with a stick. 

***

The next night Sansa stood behind the Hound as he began his work on the fire. ‘Ser.’ He turned round with a scowl. ‘Will you teach me how to do that?’ 

He looked at her, half-impressed, but didn’t reply. 

She crouched down next to him, her arms resting on her knees, peering at his pile of tinder and sticks. He tucked some of his hair behind his good ear and showed her the ball of moss and loose shreds of dry bark that acted as tinder, and the dry leaves laid on top. He used her dagger to dig a hole in a flat piece of wood, and to sharpen the drill stick and the flat, rough bit of bark underneath.

After many whittles, and more creative curses than Sansa had ever heard from him before, the tinder caught the first few sparks, and they laid small sticks on it. The Hound sat back quickly and Sansa continued adding sticks. 

‘I’ll do it tomorrow, then,’ she said. 

He looked at her with sceptical amusement. ‘Will you, now?’ 

She nodded. ‘Then you don’t have to.’ 

He suddenly flushed, and looked down at the ground angrily. ‘There’s no need for that.’ 

‘I want to,’ she said. ‘I want to try.’ 

She heard a long exhalation like the wheeze of a bellows but he didn’t protest further. They ate the second hare and the Hound produced a tiny black pot she didn’t know he had so that she could boil her mushrooms. Little was said, but he seemed to be drinking his wine more slowly.

In the middle of the night, Sansa opened her eyes with a start. There was a rumbling in the distance – she couldn’t tell how far away. Horses? Carts? Soldiers? She rolled onto her back and sat up on her elbows, listening intently. 

‘It’s thunder.’ The Hound spoke quietly. She could just make out his form – sitting up, a large mound in a blanket - on the other side of the smouldering fire. ‘Go back to sleep.’ 

Sansa shivered and wrapped her blanket and cloak more tightly round her, balling her fists up under her armpits. The thunder continued to grumble distantly, though the rain never came.

***

She’s right next to me that night, peering at my pathetic fire, offering to do it. My pride rises like hackles, then. She means well, I see it, but she has my weak spot now. I feel like a little boy. 

Trying to ease back on the wine. It’s not enough to knock me out as I’d like. Best way to fall asleep - oblivious, not even knowing you’ve laid your head down half the time. But I need some shred of my wits about me out here. 

There’s a storm off, and she wakes, full of fear – I can see her sitting up, the whites of her eyes. She’s been choking it down, but she’s terrified, still, of what might happen on the road. She’s right to be. But at least she’s not looking so terrified of me.

Later, the light is like fireswords in my eyes. That wine’s a killer, even with less of it. She’s darkdreaming again, snuffling like a little animal. There’s thunder again and I think, the rain’s coming this time, and then I hear that it’s men, not thunder, and they’re not far off. Fuck. 

In a heartbeat, I’ve crept over to her, thinking do we need to fly, thinking how do I wake her, thinking Gods, don’t scream. 

***

_Men of the Night’s Watch were trudging through snows so thick it came up to their thighs. Joffrey led them, his golden hair gleaming under a hood of black fur. Suddenly she was there in front of them, barefoot in the snow, wearing a violet summer dress, and frozen to the spot as the line of men approached. Joffrey pointed at her and suddenly men were on top of her, pushing her over, and she couldn’t even scre-_

Sansa awoke, trying to gasp, but couldn’t. A large hand was clamped over her mouth.

The bandaged hand covered most of her cheek as well as her mouth and chin. Sansa grabbed it. The Hound was kneeling over her, holding a finger to his lips and pointing in mid-air beyond her, above the dell in which they’d made their camp. She breathed in through her nose, trying to calm herself, and listened. Very faintly, under the sound of her heart thudding, there were voices, several. 

Men’s voices. 

Straining harder, she thought she could hear the dull clump of horses’ hooves, and laughter. The Hound lifted his eyes from hers and stared at a patch of leaves next to them both, his body utterly tense and alert, his free hand moving towards his sword, which glinted on the ground beside them. 

Sansa tried not to breathe. As the sounds got closer, she removed his hand from her mouth but clutched it tightly, hovering just over her face, exhaling through her mouth as noiselessly as possible. He looked back at her and she slid her eyes towards the horses, who were lying down, still sleeping, behind some trees. He followed her look and closed his eyes for a moment, understanding. They mustn’t wake up. 

Their camp was some distance from the scrubby path they’d left the night before. The voices and sounds of the horses grew louder, enough for them to hear one animal harrumph. Sorrell twitched her tail. Raucous laughter and shouting could be heard. Indistinct words. Another laugh, short and angular. 

The sounds began to fade, dissolving in the leaf-trembles, ebbing to nothing. Sansa took a deep, long breath, her ribs pressing against her dress. The Hound looked down at the hand she was holding. Gods. She was gripping him right where she’d wounded him. 

His thumb was closed gently around her fingers. 

She released it quickly. He flexed his fingers slightly and sat back, looking at her, still listening.

‘Who do you think they were?’ she asked, very quietly. 

He shook his head and spoke almost under his breath. ‘No loyal band, by the sounds of things. Too carefree. But whether they were Lannisters or your brother’s lot, or a whole other load of bannermen in between, who’s to say.’ 

‘How many, do you think?’ Sansa put her fingers in her eyes, blinking herself properly awake. 

‘Ten, maybe.’

She wondered what would have happened if the men had stumbled upon them. Could he have protected her, and himself? He was wounded, however much he tried to ignore it. 

The Hound seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Five I could take. Ten’s asking a bit much, even for me.’ He got up carefully, with a rueful grin, and turned to go, before stopping and turning back. He put his good hand down towards her. ‘I’m sorry about - waking you like that.’ He sounded almost formal. Almost like a _ser_.

‘I was dreaming,’ said Sansa, in a small, slightly broken voice. 

‘I know,’ he said. ‘You’re always having bad dreams.’ His look was dark, but there was something benign in it, and curious, too. She took his hand and he pulled her up as if she was as light as a cloak, and dropped her hand. 

***

I cover her mouth and watch her grab me and in a different story I’d have opened her up to me in an instant but there’s no time to think like that and I keep her quiet, and she understands. The men and the horses pass, whoever the hells they were, and we’re safe again. 

I’m touching the mud on her knuckles. She’s been pressing hard on the dagger wound and fuck, it hurts, but it’s the sweetest pain I’ll ever have.

***

‘The hells are you eating now?’

They had seen no one else that day. The woods had been populated with small, crook-backed trees, and the paths lined with foxgloves and hawthorn bushes. Riding onto open fields, the Hound swung off his horse and strode away with his bow and arrow, certain he’d seen quail. 

He was coming back to Sansa and the horses, two limp necks hooked over his fingers.

Sansa said a silent prayer to the Warrior. Or maybe it should be the Mother. She wasn’t sure. She was just glad to see more real food, even if it meant she had to watch it being plucked and split open first. 

She held the fistful of luminous green stalks out and kept chewing. ‘I don’t know. It tastes like mint but it doesn’t look exactly like it.’ The leaves were finely ribbed, as the mint she knew was, but much tougher and more curly, like a cabbage.

He slung the birds over his saddle and came over to her. She held her hand up and he sniffed at it unceremoniously, before ripping one from its stem and chewing.

He grunted. ‘Ay, must be.’ One eyebrow raised just a little. ‘You’ll not die this time, then.’

Sansa held the rest of the bunch out to Sorrel, who munched it loudly, the mare’s dry lips rubbing her palm. 

The Hound shook his head as he prepared his saddle. ‘Bloody mad, the pair of you.’

***

I keep us on small tracks, the old ways, before kings sent thousands stumbling and cursing into the mud. I skirt well off the towns, not that there are many out here. Keep to the woods. Those men sounded too light of heart to be after us. If you’d been sent by Cersei you might as well have a sword digging into your back, drawing just enough blood to keep you moving. Fact that we’ve been safe so far makes me wonder if Stannis won. The bird wouldn’t be his first thought – he’d need to shore up the city first, make an example of traitors. 

I try to picture the boy’s head on a spike. I don’t feel remorse. Boy had it coming. He couldn’t rule a kingdom anymore than he could sleep at night without shouting for his mummy. Bird’s got more backbone than he’d ever have. You’ve been too cruel to her, dog. She wants to learn, so let her.

***

That evening, under a moon bearded with wisps of cloud, the Hound clapped his hands and rubbed them together. 

‘Right then,’ he said with half a grin. ‘Let’s see you make this fire.’ 

Sansa had always loved to learn – she’d easily been Septa Mordane’s favourite when she was younger, much to Arya’s chagrin, and she’d watched his fire-making carefully. She was determined to prove herself. She collected all the tools that she needed as he made a show of seating himself comfortably, and then stood over him, putting her palm out. He looked at her questioningly. 

‘I need my dagger,’ she said.

He sat back and folded his arms with a faint smile, squinting up at her. 

She sighed. ‘Look, I’m really sorry that I – attacked you. Truly. I promise I won’t do it again.’ 

‘A promise is a solemn thing.’ He feigned a sombre look. ‘You can’t go back on it.’ 

Sansa spoke as if she was reciting a list of sigils. ‘ _Please can I have my dagger_.’ 

With one arm still folded, the Hound whipped out Shae’s dagger from his scabbard underneath his elbow as if conjuring it from the air. 

‘ _Thank_ you,’ she said. She sat back down and began to shave off the top of her whittling stick. 

Everything was going well until the final, crucial moment. Sansa simply could not get any sparks to come. She could now see why he would work himself up so much. It was infuriating. She’d spent what seemed like a whole season twisting frantically away and there was no sign. All the while he’d been watching her, sighing over-heavily, and finally pretending to go to sleep. 

‘Crone’s feet!’ It came out more loudly than she’d meant to. 

The Hound laughed and got up. ‘I’ll have to teach you some better oaths, and all.’ 

He came over and knelt down opposite her. ‘The angle’s not quite right.’ He pointed to the hollow on the base wood. He gestured to her to put the stick in place again and tilted it slightly further away from her body. ‘Alright, now.’ 

Sansa began to whittle, and whittle. Nothing came. Her cheeks grew hotter. 

‘Someone’s losing her patience,’ he said.

‘ _You_ never have any.’ She glared at him.

He exhaled a small laugh and cupped his hands over hers. ‘Go a bit slower.’ He started her off again. 

The air seemed weighted suddenly. As if it was coated with something, oil or lacquer. They were both looking at their hands, the stick, and the kindling. His hands were so large, completely enclosing hers. There was a long, pale scar, as thin as a crack in a rock, from the bone on his wrist to the knuckle of his forefinger, and one of his thumbnails was split all the way down. Together, they twisted the stick, neither saying a word.

A spark finally came. Sansa gave a darting little in-breath and almost stopped, but the Hound kept her hands moving until a few more orange flecks flew, and quickly removed his palms as she moved the kindling and blew on it. 

At last, tiny plumes of smoke and flame began to flare, and she added small twigs and larger sticks. The fire took. Sansa sat back on her knees, her face lit up by the small flames, beaming. 

He had moved back as the fire grew, and she caught a look on his face that was something like benevolent pride, before he masked it with one of his wry grins. ‘Your first fire.’ 

***

Her eyes turn Valerian steel trying to get the fire going and it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. But I put my hands over hers to get the stick moving before I know what I’m bloody doing. Her hands are so small. Not a single mark, save the mud. No cuts, scars. Delicate as a potter’s finest. I can smell that curly bastard-mint she’s been chomping on all afternoon and all.

***

Sansa swore that the quails tasted all the better for having crackled on top of _her_ fire. She was ravenous, and found herself carefully inspecting the bird, tearing it apart to find all last scraps of the dark, fleshy meat. Her fingers were covered in grease and she began licking the tips, one by one. The Hound was picking at his teeth with a fine bone and eyeing her with amusement. 

She frowned, and wiped her hands on her skirts. ‘ _Please_ don’t laugh at me.’ 

He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, as if to say he was doing no such thing. He was always laughing at her. She swore that he enjoyed seeing her out here, living like a wildling. 

‘Do you – do you think we might stop at an inn sometime - soon?’ 

He took the bone out his mouth and used his little fingernail instead. ‘Getting tired of the woods, are we?’ 

‘You can’t expect me to like it out here. It’s just – don’t you want to have _real_ food, and a _proper_ bed?’ she said, making sure that she didn’t just complain about her own discomfort. 

‘Bet your brother’s army are thinking just the same, and they’ve been on the road for a lot longer than you.’

Sansa threw her bones into the fire. ‘They have _tents_. And _cooks_.’ 

The Hound grinned and took his finger out of his mouth. ‘We’re still in the south. It’s not just you that I’m worried about being recognised. There are a few people who’d be happy to sling a hood over me and get me back to King’s Landing for a ransom. We’re both prizes, though I’ll not deny that you’re the prettier one. Once we get past the Twins, I promise you an inn.’ 

Sansa could see that he was talking some sense, as much as she hated to hear it. ‘What will you do – after Winterfell?’ 

The Hound gazed into the fire and picked up his wineskin. ‘Maybe I’ll take a look at that Wall. Maybe I’ll go over it. Or maybe I’ll board a ship and head somewhere a lot, lot warmer, with vineyards and spices and maidens wearing not very much.’ Sansa tried not to blush. He gulped some wine. ‘I’ll follow my nose.’ He stretched and gave a big, bearish groan, and fetched the blankets from the horses, throwing one at her unceremoniously. ‘Goodnight.’ 

***

I listen to her rocking back and forth in her dreams, a little rowboat in a squall. I take a look at the shoulder. Starting to yellow. Hurts to fuck. 

I mean what I say about it being too dangerous. Mostly. The look on her face when the flames take - like she’s helped birth a bloody lamb. _Real_ pride, not some reedback asking her to dance and her having to say yes. And she eats that bird like she means it – maybe her white wolf flew into her when Stark killed it. No airs or graces. I don’t want to give her up to anyone just yet, not when she’s looking at me with grease shining on her fingers and quail in her teeth.

What the hells _am_ I going to do though, after this? Survival’s been the first thought, keeping low, nothing more. I’m just starting to recognise the taste of freedom – something clear, like springwater. Something to unfog my head. Not sure I’m ready for it yet. 

I’m curious to get north, test myself. Never been further than Winterfell, that one time. I like the land-lie there, hiding nothing, full of teeth. But that might be madness. Winter’s coming. The Starks say that true enough. 

Never been over the sea – not that I’ve the Dothraki fear in me, I’d do it. Just not sure the hot weather’s for me. I said to her about maidens not wearing much just to make her blush those beetroots again. Wouldn’t mind it though – girls plump as ripe grapefruits, smelling of trade spices, spilling cream, either side of me, if I could just get them to ignore my face. But then they both become her and I have to put the blanket over my head and suffocate myself to sleep.

***

In the morning, as they got their horses up and watered, the Hound coughed behind Sansa to get her attention. She turned around to find him holding her dagger on his palm out to her. 

‘Reckon you’ve earned this back.’

He trusted her. She couldn’t help the tiniest grin at him before she moved to take it. He whipped his hand back, fixing her with a teasing, searching look. She sighed, holding her hand out, her head to her side. Everything was such a game to him. He placed it in her hand. 

‘Thank you, ser,’ she said.

‘Look.’ He was suddenly brusque, the game over. ‘Stop with the _sers_. You know I hate it.’ 

She dropped her shoulders as if she was being ticked off by Septa Mordane. ‘I know you didn’t want to be a knight, but - what else am I supposed to call you? I’m not calling you ‘Hound’.’ 

He shrugged. ‘Well, that’s my name. There’s no shame in it.’ 

‘There _is _. _He_ called you that, and worse. How can you like that name? It – it degrades you.’ __

__He leant towards her, assuming a fearsome look. ‘It puts the fear of the Gods in people.’_ _

__Sansa hugged her arms to her chest, unimpressed. ‘You’re not a dog, you’re a man. With a _name_.’ _ _

__He sighed raggedly, scratching his forehead. ‘Sandor, then.’_ _

__Sansa took a step back, satisfied. ‘Thank you.’ She swore that she saw the faintest hint of a blush under his glowering expression._ _

__Sansa handed him Sorrel’s reins and went to her bundle, pulling out the strap that Shae had given her. She sat down on the nearest rock and pulled her skirts up to just below the knee, placing the dagger on the ground by her foot. Winding the strap around her ankle as Shae had done, with the little sheath for the dagger on her outer ankle, she picked up the blade and slid it into place. She looked up with a grin and caught him, just for a fleeting moment, looking fixedly at her lower leg._ _

__Her pale calf, with fine golden hairs, probably the brightest thing for miles around, and him, staring at it._ _

__In a second, she had swiftly thrown her skirts back down to her bootstraps, and he’d lost that look and was shifting Stranger’s saddle, unnecessarily. But she didn’t forget it._ _

__***_ _

Last person to call me Sandor was, gods, the housekeep probably, whacking me on the arse with a rag and giving me a handful of mulberries. Father called me _pup_ – until the face, and then he didn’t call me much of anything, and Gregor would spit _runt_ at me and black my eye if I bit back. 

__When _she_ does, calling up the path to me, asking about some blade-tipped plants as if I’m a damned maester, my stomach gives. Gods. She caught my eyes on her this morning too – I was helpless, her leg was there, so white it practically glowed. Fine little golden hairs, shinbone. And I swear, her fixing that dagger on her ankle almost got me hard. Hells._ _

__I’ve less of a head this morn, first time in a long time. Bit shaky, but alright._ _

__Getting pretty good with my left arm now. Never would have thought myself much of a huntsman but then never would have thought that the bird – Sansa. I mean, Sansa – would be rooting out mushrooms and sniffing them like a boar, or sparking a fire, or scrubbing down Stranger and giving him what for, either.__

 _Sansa_. Rolls off the tongue like _sunset_.


	6. Chapter 6

They began to fall into a routine. She would see to brushing the horses down, gather berries and firewood, and make the fires. He would disappear and come back with birds, or a hare, and scout ahead at crossings. They stopped at rivers, or sometimes something not much more than a trickle, to fill their waterskins and roughly wash, though Sansa would just splash her face and neck. She smelt like a farmgirl. Like a farm _animal_. And they called each other, just occasionally, and only if necessary, by name. He was right - ‘the Hound’ did instil fear in people, including her. Thinking of him as Sandor erased what little trepidation she had left of him, and his sparing use of her name felt like he didn’t just see her as a flighty, hopeless girl.

As they trotted through a thick wood, picking their way over tree roots as coiled as serpents, Sandor suddenly pulled Stranger up. There were three figures ahead, though there were no flags or horses to be seen. He moved on towards them, Sansa following. The three leapt up as they approached, looking panicked. 

The man was older, the woman next to him maybe his daughter. She clutched a young girl of about six to her waist. Their clothes were dull-coloured and patched, and all looked desperately thin, pinched and terrified. 

‘Good – good day to you both,’ said the man, in a voice thin as strained tea. 

The woman pulled the girl aside and they bowed their heads. Sandor didn’t reply, scowling down at them as he led Stranger past. As Sansa rode alongside the trio, she saw the little girl raise her eyes up to look at her from underneath her ragged fringe. Her eyes were tired and hollow, but inquisitive. 

Sansa tugged on Sorrel’s reins. ‘Where are you going?’ 

The man took a step forward. ‘Just looking for somewhere safe and quiet, m’lady, to find work and bring up this little one.’ 

The woman put her hand on the girl’s tangled curls. Sandor had stopped Stranger a few paces on and had turned him so that they were sidelong on the path. 

‘And where have you come from?’ Sansa asked. 

The woman raised her head. There was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes, before she glanced down again. ‘King’s –‘ 

Sandor had come back towards the group, his face impassive. Sansa saw the man take in his armour and the burnt side of his face with a startled look, nudging the woman to stop. 

‘- Landing.’ The woman glared at the older man, surprised, too late.

‘How’ve you got up here so quickly without horses, then?’ said Sandor, in a near-growl. 

The man bowed his head, quite fear-stricken. 

‘You may speak freely,’ said Sansa. 

He looked hesitantly at Sandor. ‘We – had a cart to take us much of the way, ser, but it was attacked by brigands, and we were lucky to get away.’ 

‘Did you leave on the night of the battle?’ asked Sansa. 

‘Ay, my lady. The Old Gate was opened and some escaped, though many were hunted down by the City Watch. We – we hid under a moving cart.’ 

‘Do you know what happened?’ she said. He looked up at her, puzzled. ‘Who won?’ 

The man shook his head blankly. It didn’t seem to matter to him. ‘No, m’lady.’ 

Sandor wheeled Stranger round to Sansa, glaring at her impatiently. She felt resolute. ‘Are you hungry?’ she said to the deserters.

The little girl raised her head then, for the first time, her eyes round and hopeful. The man glanced at Sandor. ‘Don’t trouble yourselves, we’ll be right.’ 

Sansa swung off Sorrel and walked over to Sandor. She loosened the dead hare that was hanging by its neck at the back of Stranger’s saddle and brought it back to the trio, feeling Sandor’s eyes burning into her back. 

‘Have this for today, at least,’ she said, holding it out.

The woman took it from her, looking at Sansa gratefully. ‘All our thanks, m’lady.’ 

Sansa smiled at them, and mounted her mare again. 

As she went to move off, the woman stepped up to her and put her hand on Sorrel’s neck. ‘M’lady – ‘ 

Sansa stopped and looked down at her. 

The woman eyed her keenly as if to say that she could answer her freely and kept her voice low. ‘Are you quite well, m’lady?’ 

Sansa looked at Sandor, then back at her. ‘Yes. I am well. Thank you.’ 

The woman removed her hand from Sorrel, nodding her understanding. ‘Gods go with you, then.’

The trio stood in a line, motionless, watching them disappear. 

Sansa took a final look and spurred Sorrel on to ride abreast of Sandor, who was staring fixedly ahead. ‘Do you they’ll be alright out here?’ 

He was rigid. ‘Ay, you’ll have given them all of an extra bloody day.’

‘They were _hungry_.’

‘And now _you’ll_ be hungry.’ He still didn’t look at her. ‘You’d better feel like hunting today.’ 

Sansa looked across at him, not understanding. 

He glanced at her impassively, spurring Stranger on. ‘I’m not spending my time catching game only for you to give our dinner away to the first beggars you see.’ 

She tried to keep up. ‘They were from King’s Landing. They’re your people.’

‘Not my people.’ He began to outride her. ‘Nor yours’.

***

Fuck’s sake. Bloody giving away one of my hares. Hares I spent a sunrise waiting for, freezing my arse off while she slept again. Hells, she can sleep. And there she goes, without a thought, slinging it at some King’s Landing strays who’ll be dead tomorrow, or the next day, with my hare wasting in their corpses. She’s too damned kind for her own good. And for mine. She gets between my teeth. 

Gods damn her.

***

Sometime later, as they rode abreast of a sloping, lumpen field, Sandor stopped, pointing to the brow of the hill. ‘There’s your quarry.’ 

Sansa squinted up into the sun’s glare, following his hand. She could see rabbits scattered about, still or lolloping lazily between mounds of scrubby grass. Sandor slid off Stranger and took Sorrel’s reins, waiting for Sansa to dismount. 

‘Rabbits?’ She’d always loved watching rabbits up on the moors near Winterfell and rarely ate them. 

‘Ay, rabbits.’ She swore there was a touch of relish in his voice. 

Sansa had never touched a bow and arrow and told him so, several times, as she got down. Her brothers had been near-addicted to archery, from Robb down even to Rickon – Father had had a miniature bow made especially for him. And of course Arya would take a shot whenever she could and practised out in the weirwood when she thought no one was looking. 

Sandor pretended not to hear and handed her his bow. 

She tilted it warily away from her body. ‘You know I won’t be able to do it.’ 

Sandor grinned, holding three arrows bunched up in his fist at her. ‘You’ll make do.’ He led her to some ash trees at the bottom corner of the field and showed her the small, flat blades. ‘Blunts. Good for killing birds, but they’ll do.’ 

‘I really don’t think this is going to work.’ 

‘Call it target practice, then. You’ve three chances.’ He fitted her an arrow. ‘Don’t do anything yet. Have a look up there and pick your shot.’ 

Sansa peered up at the small, hunched silhouettes. There were four rabbits in a group lower down in the field. She brought the bow up and pulled the arrow back. There was so much tension in the hide string that her arm shook and the shaft trembled uncontrollably. 

She lowered the bow, her cheeks reddening. ‘I’m not strong enough.’

‘Ay, you are. Don’t give up before you’ve started. Go on.’ 

She pulled the bow up again, more forcefully, and drew the string back until that the fletchling was touching her cheek. With an eye closed, squinting at the trio of rabbits, she loosed the arrow.

It took a wobbling flight and landed some pace short of them, collapsing into the grass. A flock of pigeons, rock-grey with pink flashes, broke into the sky. The rabbits didn’t even notice. 

Sansa’s face fell. Sandor made a poor attempt at masking his grin as he fitted her another arrow. She pulled it up and released it, too quickly. It soared further this time, but metres wide of any rabbits. The animals loped slightly away from where it had fallen, untroubled. 

Sandor fitted her final arrow. 

She didn’t look at him, furious and embarrassed. He was making a fool of her. ‘I can’t do it.’ Her throat felt as taut as the bowstring. 

‘Take your time.’ He moved behind her and spoke in a low, casual voice. ‘Get your prey in sight first. Try one of them right at the top of the hill. They’re not moving.’ 

Sansa brought her arrow up, the nock at her cheekbone. 

‘Bring your arm up so that it’s level with your arrow.’ He put his hand under the tip of her elbow and gently raised it. 

Sansa took a breath in. He was very close to her. With him holding her there, she was able to keep the bowstring tight without shaking, and let it fly. It arced over the field and fell over the line of the horizon, missing her rabbit. 

She lowered her bow. ‘Happy now?’ 

‘It was a good first try.’ He took the bow off her and moved past her into the field, and then turned, walking backwards. ‘Good for those rabbits anyway.’ He winked and turned back to collect the arrows.

Sansa kicked the smooth roots of the ash trees with her boot, hard enough to numb her toes. She’d mastered the fire well enough, but she couldn’t turn into a head archer in a heartbeat. Sandor was just punishing her again, for doing an act of kindness he disapproved of. He had to humiliate her - he just couldn’t help himself. 

‘Sansa!’ 

She turned back round to the field to see him, a big silhouette against the sun, which glinted off his armour. Sandor was tramping back down the field towards her, holding two arrows in one hand and a limp rabbit in the other. 

He held it up to her. It must have been caught by that third arrow, unseen by them over the brow of the hill. She grinned.

***

It’s sweet as hells watching her try with the bow, seeing that long neck flush, her blood right up. And I get behind her to see her arm straight, so she’s got at least a scrap of a chance. There’s a slick of dirt on her collarbone. She smells of wild garlic. And mushrooms. She misses all three times and looks ready to turn into a thundercloud. I stop myself laughing, just about, and go to collect the arrows, leaving her to steam.

The last one fell over the hill, next to a couple of bloody lazy rabbits who hardly move when I come close. So I stand still, making like a tree, and I slip my dagger out and hurl it, and fuck me if it doesn’t get one. And I take up the arrow and sort of shove it into the dagger wound. She’ll never know the difference. 

It’s worth it for the grin on her face. She’s smiled more in the last day than I ever saw her smiling at King’s Landing, though mayhaps she just wasn’t smiling at me. Well, she is now.

***

By the light of the fire that Sansa made that night, Sandor taught her how to skin it. She didn’t argue this time. She was determined to rise to each challenge he gave her, just to wipe those cursed, sly grins off his face. 

Using Shae’s dagger, he instructed her to slice the fur up the back of both legs. She pulled the first bit of hide away, towards the rabbit’s little tufted tail, and gritted her teeth as she cut through the tailbone, which crunched alarmingly. She was surprised at how easily the hide pulled off over the animal’s middle and how little blood there was. Bile started to rise in her throat as she worked fingers under the skin of the front legs, turning it inside out, revealing the stretched, mottled flesh. It looked a little like Sandor’s cheek, she thought, wickedly. 

She couldn’t bring herself to sever the head. ‘You do it.’ She foisted the dagger on him.

He was about to refuse, when something made him realise why she was insisting, and he took the knife from her and swiftly chopped it off. ‘I’ll do the rest. Go and get some water.’

Afterwards, they sat gnawing at her rabbit over the fire. Sansa was eating a leg, picking at the meat. 

‘How does it taste?’ he asked. 

‘It needs apricots. And sauce. And vegetables. And salt.’ 

He smiled dryly at her. ‘I mean, how does it taste, being your first game?’ 

She fixed her teeth around a bone. ‘Good.’ 

‘That was some beginner’s luck,’ he said, throwing a sinew into the fire.

‘It was no such thing. I knew there were rabbits over the hill. It’s a sixth sense I have. A special Stark gift. You couldn’t possibly understand.’ 

He breathed a laugh, his eyes glinting a little.

‘You’ve probably been using a bow and arrow since you were _five_ ,’ she said.

‘Ay.’ He tipped his head down to his injured shoulder. ‘But I have been using my other arm.’ 

Sansa glared at him, gleefully furious. ‘You’re just showing off.’ 

‘And you’re turning into a proper little she-wolf.’

She shrugged at him as impassively as she could. She couldn’t help feeling secretly pleased. He meant it as an accolade, and though a week ago she would have done anything but, she took it as one. 

As they finished, Sandor threw something over the fire at her. She flinched slightly at the thing that had fallen by her feet, and picked it up. 

He nodded at it. ‘For luck.’ It was the rabbit’s tail, cleaned of blood. A soft, white ball like a dandelion weed. 

‘You have it.’ Sansa flung it back and it landed in his lap. ‘I’m going to get back home. Luck is going to have nothing to do with it. Have it as a present.’ She looked down at her fingers, which were greasy with rabbit meat. ‘For – for after Winterfell.’ 

He knew what she meant. ‘Not sure I want it for then, either.’

She tried to speak delicately, picturing Gregor towering over him at the tourney. ‘He’s a lot bigger than you.’

‘He’s a lot bigger than everyone. But he’s just one man, and one man can be killed.’ 

‘He’s probably one of the hardest men to kill, though, isn’t he?’ she asked, as lightly as she could. 

‘Ay, well, there have been a lot of strange deaths in my family. I’ll make sure this one isn’t the most surprising.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

The fire spat. ‘My -’ he paused again, and seemed to be deciding whether to continue or not. He breathed in. ‘I had a sister, once.’ He swallowed. ‘She died.’ 

Sansa hardly dared move. ‘What happened?’ 

He seemed to become heavy, so heavy that his words slowed, and each one was uttered as if it were a large stone being lowered to the ground. ‘It’s said she drowned.’ 

‘But you think - otherwise?’ 

Sandor looked deeply into the fire. ‘I know so, though I can’t prove it. She was always careful near the water. There was a big lake nearby. She didn’t swim in it, though my brother said that she must have done, this time.’ 

The flames crackled and crunched, as if it too was gnawing on rabbit bones. 

She looked at him gently, desperate to prompt him further. ‘You said – deaths. Was there more than one?’ 

Sparks were in his eyes, like flints taking. He was grinding his teeth slightly. ‘We had servants who would – well, one day they’d be there, the next not, and no one would speak of it. I know one kitchenmaid who might’ve, had her tongue not been bitten out. And my father -’ 

Sansa glanced at him, not believing that there could be more. 

He looked at her as he spoke, bitterness creeping into his voice. ‘Well, hunting is treacherous as fuck, it seems, for kings and bannermen alike, even when you’ve weapons, and dogs and squires at your heels.’

Sansa was horrified. She drew her knees up to her chin, trying to digest his words. 

‘Let’s not speak of it,’ Sandor said, seeing how troubled she was. He picked up the rabbit’s tail and jiggled it at her. ‘Maybe I’ll take it, just in case.’ 

She smiled then. ‘You’ll be drowning in lucky charms soon enough.’ He looked at her quizzically and she raised her eyebrows, sitting back casually. ‘From all the rabbits I’m going to shoot for us.’ 

He barked a sudden laugh and looked at her. His gaze suddenly grew more intense.

She fidgeted under it. ‘What?’ 

He leaned back with a half-smile. ‘You’re getting freckles.’ 

She felt herself blush and looked at the fire. ‘I’m – not supposed to stay in the sun too long.’

They were silent for a while. Sansa was trying to take in what he’d told her. Being brought up in the shadow of such a brother. She eyed him sidelong, looking at the long clumps of hair that hung down from the burnt side of his head. He’d been disfigured so horribly, and then to lose a sister, and a father. He had been left with no one but the monster. She wondered if he’d had any happiness in his life at all, any kindness or love shown towards him. 

Sandor caught her scrutinising him. ‘What is it?’ 

She came out with it. ‘Were you ever married?’ 

Sandor looked panic-stricken at the question, like one of the birds caught in his hands just before he’d break its throat. ‘Gods, girl, do you have to?’ 

‘I just - wondered.’ Sansa was secretly gleeful that he was so embarrassed. ‘You don’t have to answer.’

Sandor scratched his neck. ‘Didn’t have much time for that, once I was at Casterly Rock. And anyway –‘ he looked awkward and fleetingly self-hating. ‘I don’t think many of the girls were too keen on looking at this.’ He gestured vaguely towards the right side of his face. 

There was an uncomfortable pause. Why did he think of it as such a burden? 

‘Everyone has – something –‘ she struggled to articulate what she meant, desperate not to offend him. He narrowed his eyes at her, a challenge. ‘I mean, Tyrion Lannister is – a dwarf, and Ser Illyn – has no tongue, and Ser Varys –‘ 

‘You’d best stop talking,’ he said, drinking some of his wine, though she could see that he was hurt. 

‘No, I mean –‘ she took a deep breath, plucking a blade of grass from between her feet. ‘My brother, Bran, he fell from a tower and now he can’t use his legs. But he’s strong, and he’ll grow to be a fine man, and be a maester, or a bannerman for Robb. I just mean – you’re not the only one. We – everyone has something, an obstacle. It – it doesn’t matter.’ 

‘Ay, and what’s yours, then?’ She looked up at him, unsure of what to say. ‘Answer me that.’ He shook his head, irritated. ‘You’re so damned perfect.’ 

It seemed an angry confusion of insult and high compliment. She flushed, her skin prickling. He looked at her for just a moment too long, before turning his face away. Sansa tightened her jaw. ‘My obstacle is that I’m a highborn woman. Not a man.’ 

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ay, that’s a hardship, having your hair brushed and your bath drawn and learning to play the fucking harp.’ 

‘You’re wrong.’ Sansa looked at him defiantly. ‘I exist for one purpose. To be married off, to join houses, have sons. Nothing more.’ She picked more blades of grass, each one more furiously than the last. 

There was a long pause, and Sandor sighed heavily. ‘Ay. Well, maybe you’re right. We’re all born into this world with something to fight against.’ He tipped his wineskin over, and when nothing dripped out, sighed again.

***

She won’t say no to a challenge, that’s plain enough. Starkblood lodged in her like grit. She can’t bring herself to do the head but that would be like asking me to slam a squealing rabbit’s nose into the fire. I keep the rabbit tail for her. Used to do that for Fira when she was wee. She had a little row of them on her windowsill, dusty in the light, for all the luck it brought her. Luck was a hollow word in the Clegane house. Maybe no such thing anyway. Just what you make of it.

And then I find myself telling her about it all – Fira, Father, Gregor, his teeth everywhere. I’ve never told anyone. She looks like she’s damn near-brimming over. She doesn’t cry though, just gives me another one of those looks, like I’m a wolf-pup she’s rearing. And then she comes out with it, asks me if I was ever married. _Gods_. How does she not understand? That looking like this, that being a _Clegane_ , is not most women’s idea of a happyeverafter. I don’t belong at the end of a song. 

She starts making niceties, making it worse with every word, likening me to a eunuch and a dwarf and a crippled boy and a fucking mute executioner and expecting me to be thankful for it. Well, I’m not. I hate it and always will. I hate her looking at it, which she’s doing more and more, not a trace of fear. I try and hide it from her, keep her to my good side – as good as it’s ever going to get, anyway.

And I blurt out that she’s so fucking perfect – tongue riding brain, I’m no better than her - and I want to just crawl into a hole. Now she’s lying there so quiet on the other side of the fire, chewing on it. I know she’s not sleeping because I know how she sleeps now. She doesn’t understand that I don’t mean with her hair all braided and her sleeves floating down, but now, pulling that bowstring towards the rabbits while her jaw grows tight, knuckles getting a bit raw, strands of hair all over the place. 

Gods, I’ve a bellyful of her. Wine’s out. How I’ll ever sleep.

***

That night was colder than ever. The days might still have a late summer glow, but the nights warned of the approaching winter. Sansa lay looking up at the stars, which seemed to spin and fight for her attention between the dark branches, and watched her cold breath exhale in clouds before vanishing into nothing. The fire gave its last sighs, diminishing to a dull, intermittent glow, as if it was breathing. It was so unnervingly quiet that she couldn’t sleep. 

He’d called her perfect. He seemed furious about it, but he’d called her perfect. She could not understand what he felt about her. Whether he thought she was a frivolous girl, or a haughty highborn, or – something else. She knew he’d been proud of her these last few days, making fires, using the bow and arrow, skinning rabbits. He’d grown – at least for the most part – more benevolent. And just occasionally, she’d caught him giving her a look that stilled her. 

He could still turn on her, but she could see that there was a gentler side to him, underneath it all, and a teasing humour that wasn’t as cruel as all that. He’d hardened, in the face of the horrors he’d suffered at home. She’d meant what she said. She saw the potential in him to be better, and braver, given the chance. His face shouldn’t stop him, and she was so used to it now that she hardly noticed it. As he talked about his family, he’d seemed to break, and soften just a little more. 

Maybe he was the sort of knight you found in real life – not in the songs, where the men were all fey and noble, and the ladies simpering waifs. She stifled a giggle as she imagined a song being written about them, about a burnt, angry bear of a man and a girl with a filthy face and rabbit’s bones in her teeth. 

Suddenly there was a low rumble and her heart jumped in her chest. For a moment she thought it might be a wolf. There was a slower, juddering sound, like an iron chain dragged on gravel, and she realised that it was him, snoring. She went to sleep, shivering, but with a grin on her face.


	7. Chapter 7

We’re quiet again the next day. It’s like the firetime each night tips us upside down and we say all our pieces all wrong, they just tumble out, and we’re righted again the next morning, ready to start afresh. 

It’s good to be out from under her eyes for a bit, sitting in grassland, waiting for birds. She’s making my shoulders hurt, keeps looking at me like I’m a riddle, and when I turn, her eyes jump away. I’ve left her chattering to the horses – never would have thought Stranger would be so bloody soft. Sky’s the colour of robins’ eggs and the clouds are like rolls of paper being tossed out. 

Ah, there - got it – grouse for dinner, then. I’m not done, though. 

***

Sandor had left her with the horses and taken off with his bow and arrow. There was a smallholding some way off in a valley, little black coils of smoke trailing up from one corner of the roof. 

Sansa wasn’t sure how much more charred meat, feathers or patches of fur still stuck on it, she could take. Or boiled mushrooms, or leaves that she hoped were sage, or borage, and then ate anyway. A hot bath seemed like something she’d only ever dreamt about. 

She was beginning to feel like they were moving through a half-place, ancient, before humans. That they were the first people to ever see these fields, or these woods with canopies like clasped, worrying hands. Or perhaps it was a place after humans – after everyone had killed each other, and that they were the only ones left.

***

I could smell the bread from all the way up on the hill. The door of the smallholding’s open and I amble in and there’s a woman there, and she brings her hand up to her mouth and then puts it down again and looks fierce. Gods, there’s something in the air – no one’s afraid of me anymore. 

_Do you have food_ , I say, and she says _ay_. 

_What have you got, then_ , I ask her, and she looks like she wants to punch me, and says _bread and cheese_ and I say _I’ll have some, then_ , and she says _or what_? 

And I say _or I’ll slice both your hands off and then you’ll bake no more_ , and she has little angry tears then and hands it over. 

But hells, I can see Sansa’s bottom lip going and her eyes like chips off the Wall, and I go back and leave a coin on her fireplace and the woman looks at me like I’m a complete idiot and I get out of there as quick as I can.

What is she doing to me? I wanted to look at her, not have her look at me, have her voice itching in my skull. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I thought she’d be more - _trouble_ , more like a highborn. But this night, here she is, I’ve set her plucking the bird and she’s doing it like she’s been a bloody kitchenwench her whole life.

***

The plump little grouse on Sansa’s lap was as heavy as a sack of grain. She picked the feathers out, one by one, placing them in a neat pile on the ground. She found herself actually half-enjoying it, once she’d gotten over the squeamishness of the little scrape of feather-tip against flesh. 

A chunk of bread landed on the ground beside her. 

She looked up. ‘Where did you get that?’ 

Sandor was already eating his portion. ‘That farm.’ 

She couldn’t believe it. He’d refused to let them go there and petition for shelter or food, saying they were still too close to the city. ‘You went there without me?’ 

He flung a bit of cheese at her. 

‘Did you buy it?’ 

He winked. 

She sighed. ‘You _stole_ from them.’ 

Sandor looked half-ashamed, just for an instant, and then assumed his usual mock-bravado, speaking through a mouthful of food. ‘I’ll eat it all if you don’t want it.’

She quickly picked up the bread and cheese - a white crust like cottonweed, and thin blue lines veined through it – dusted the soil off it, and started eating. She knew that he was grinning at her.

***

I could ask her to do anything and she’d have a go. Well, not anything, not – as much as I’d like. I think of shoving her up against a Red Keep wall and demanding a song, breathing wine into her face, her blinking me away – think I did that once, though the wine means I can’t remember. Mayhaps it was a dream. Dream or no, it’s not exactly a way to a woman’s heart. 

Her hands are going through that hair like it's water, or folds of damned silk. Wonder if she’d do it now. If I asked nicely.

***

‘Think it’s time I had my favour.’ 

It was after they’d eaten and she’d been braiding her hair, trying to neaten it up at the sides. She looked up at him, startled. 

He held up his scarred hand at her. He’d removed the bandage now, and the wound she’d given him was healing into a fine, dark red crescent. ‘This still hurts, you know.’ 

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wondering what he could want. The mood was darker again. Perhaps it was having run out of wine. She felt suddenly apprehensive. 

‘Don’t you want to know, then?’ His voice was unreadable. 

She swallowed. ‘What is it?’ 

He looked at her intently. ‘I want a song.’ 

Sansa realised that she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly, trying not to let him see her relief, feeling suddenly shy. ‘What song?’ She quickly put the thought of a song about the two of them out of her mind.

‘I don’t know. Anything you like. Not too many bloody knights and fair maidens.’ He tucked his hands into his elbows, looking at her expectantly and not smiling, though the corners of his eyes were crumpled. 

Sansa was more nervous than she would have imagined. It was unspoken and hanging in the air that when he’d asked her for a song before, she was pushed up against a wall and he was steaming drunk. This was different. She didn’t mind. She would sing for him. 

She got into a kneeling position, facing him, and began. She sang ‘The Swan’, a ballad about a girl turned into a swan by a jealous boy and then shot by her lover. She looked everywhere but at him, feeling slightly ridiculous at first, with the shadows and silence hanging thickly around them, but she warmed into it. He remained very still, keeping his eyes fixed on her and his arms folded. Her voice trailed off on the last refrain of ‘and he drowned in the lake for his darling’ as she finally caught his eye. 

His jaw was hanging slightly open. Maybe he thought it was stupid. A stupid song. 

Sansa looked down, blushing. ‘It’s – a bit silly. Old Nan, our nurse, used to sing it to me. She likes the gloomy ones.’ She dared to bring her eyes back up. 

He leaned forward slightly. ‘Think I like the gloomy ones too, then.’

She gave him a squashed, shy grin and brightened, sitting back on her heels. ‘Now you have to sing something.’ 

Sandor gave a hearty, dark laugh, the tension broken in an instant. ‘I’d sooner cut my own throat.’ 

‘Well, you’ve got to do something, it’s only fair.’ 

‘You, young lady, stabbed me through my sword hand with a whore’s dagger, so I definitely do not owe you a song. And the only songs I know are not fit for a highborn lady’s ears, believe me. Anyway, all the birds will abandon these fucking woods forever in protest if I start crowing.’ His shoulders shook at his own joke. 

‘Well, what else can you do?’ she said, not intending to let it go. 

He leaned towards her, his eyes keen. ‘I was learning how to kill a man in one swordstroke when you were singing songs and embroidering pillows. That’s what I do best.’ 

‘Well, you’ll have to teach me, then.’ 

He guffawed. ‘Sansa, you were not meant to fight.’ 

‘I was not meant to live in the woods plucking the feathers out of birds, but here I am.’ She gave him her best mock-frown.

He laughed again. ‘Tomorrow, then. Go to sleep.’

***

She bloody well kneels in front of me as if she was in her godswood, and looks me straight in the eye and sings. Swans and drowning and tears like salt, I don’t know, I’m not really listening to the story, just her voice, which is like a swift on the wind. I swear I could hear it forever and not tire of it much. And her hair is all falling round her shoulders and all I want to do was snatch her damn hands up and catch that song in my mouth. I would ask her for another except she was blushing like a first-time whore and then she asks me for a song. I manage to bat that one away and next thing I know I’m pledging her a fighting lesson.

I watch her sleep and think of my mother. There’s just a nub of candle lighting the memory - I’m a dwarf in a big heavy bed, and there’s her face over me and she’s singing that song, or something like it. Words are like bees in my head, nuzzling.

***

The next morning, Sansa felt a boot thudding against the sole of one of hers. She rolled over, groaning, pulling the cloak over her face. 

Sandor kicked her again. ‘Come on, sleeping beauty, do you want to get home or become a child of the forest?’ 

She kept the cloak over her head, listening to him walk away. Was it her, or was he getting bolder? 

Sansa got up slowly, stretching and rubbing each thumb against her knuckles to massage them out of stiffness, glancing at him from under her lashes as he crashed about preparing the horses and shrugging on his armour. She drank some water from a skin and went to mount Sorrel. 

He put a hand on the mare’s reins. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ She looked at him sleepily, puzzled. ‘You’ve forgotten your first fighting lesson.’ 

Sandor led her into the clearing. He had two swords - his longsword that he kept slung on his back, and a short, single-edged sword scabbarded at his waist. 

Sansa eyed the hand-and-a-half-long blade and gave him a fierce look. 'You're a little bit bigger than me.’

He grinned and handed her the shorter one. 'Ay, I'm still wounded, though.' 

She eyed him seriously. 'Does it hurt?' 

He gave her a craggy smile. 'Had worse.' The sword was still far heavier than she expected, and she sighed and dropped her shoulders at him. 'Your sister would have been up for it,' he said. 

'Of course she would have. She is basically a boy.' 

'She had lessons, you know.' 

Sansa looked up at him, sharply. 'She wasn't allowed.' 

Sandor shook his head. 'She had some Braavosi teaching her. I could hear him drawling at her from the corridors, shouting at her to be a cat or a bird or something.’ 

‘She had a dancing master that she went to every day, but she –' Sansa stopped, the realisation quickly coming. 'Oh, _Ayra_.' She suddenly grew mournful. 

He looked down at her with something near a gruff kindness. 'She'll be right.’

'Do you know that she's alive?' Sansa tilted her head up at him, tears forming. 

'I don't. But I know that they never found her. And she's a scrapper, isn't she?'

Sansa gulped and nodded, and looked more resolutely at the sword she was holding. 'It's really too heavy. I can't do much with it.' 

'All you need to know is this. If a man's wearing armour, go for the gaps.' He gestured on himself. 'The neck, underneath the arm, stomach, top of the thigh.' 

She looked at the sword, remembering her father's great Valerian steel, Ice, always hanging by his leg, and with effort lifted the blade up to Sandor's neck. 'Here,’ she repeated.

'Careful,' he said, moving his chin just a little away from the sword, but otherwise remaining utterly still. 

The blade gave a brief flash in the early morning sun. The tip just touched the skin of his neck beneath his beard, on the unburnt side of his face. She could kill him right now, if she wanted to. He eyed her, with a guarded daring, as if he was almost inviting her to press the blade in. Her arm started to tremble just a little with the weight of it. 

'Here –‘ Sansa moved it to underneath his arm. ‘Here -‘ and directly in front of his stomach. 'And here -' She moved the sword down to the corner of his inner thigh and brought up her other hand to keep the sword still. 'It is very heavy,' she said, allowing herself the briefest hint of a grin. 

The wood seemed to have gone very still, as if a maegi had suddenly hushed it all with some words and a sweep of the hand. Not a trace of birdsong, no leaf-rustle. Sandor looked at her, still trying to work her out. A tiny vein throbbed in his temple. They seemed to be caught between something very funny and very dangerous. And then the moment was broken as he moved to the side, deftly grabbing the sword off her as if it were simply a feasting knife and slotting it into his scabbard, shaking his head in a small movement. A mixture of wonder at her audacity, and admonishment.

Sansa bit away her grin. 'What about if I've just got my dagger? That’s more likely, after all.' 

'Well, the first thing is not to go for the hand,' Sandor waved his wound at her. He was never going to let her forget it. She sighed at him and he looked at her more pensively. 'Best go straight for the throat if you can. You're tall enough. Or the eyes, I reckon.' He put his hand out, gesturing for her dagger. 

She took it from the ankle strap and went to give it to him. Instead, he clasped her fingers shut around the handle with his own hand and brought it up to his throat, her arm raised in the air. He kept it there, looking at her challengingly, his hand around hers. 

There was a pause. Sansa's heart seemed to be throbbing in her throat rather than her ribcage. Swiftly, Sandor drew her hand in the air just in front of his neck and held her gaze, more piercingly than he ever had before. She daredn't breathe.

He dropped her hand and staggered back, clutching his hand to his throat in mock-agony, the fingers of his other hand pretending to be the blood spattering out, and crashed to the ground, making hideously guttural choking noises. 

Sansa exhaled sharply, relieved, trying not to laugh. 'Don't.' 

He lay still in the grass. 

She went up to him and stood next to his motionless body, her hands on her hips. His arms were splayed outwards and his eyes shut. 'That's horrible.' 

He opened his eyes and looked up at her. 'You'd better not say that to the first man you're trying to kill. Much less impressive if you do.' 

She grinned at him and held her hand out. He looked at it, squinted up at her, sat up and took it, heaving himself up, his weight pulling Sansa forward two quick steps towards him. 

Just a foot apart from her, he held her hand for a moment longer with an opaque look, before dropping it. 'Let's get going.’

***

In the morning, she’s bundled up like an abandoned bastard, just that hair peeking out. Right then you, let’s see you fight. She gets wet eyes talking about her sister – that one would have run a sword through you as soon as look at you, though she’d only reach your thighs. Ha, probably deadliest of all then. 

But Sansa goes one step ahead of me, brings my shortsword up, right up, to my neck, a look in her eyes like she’d do it too. And I think, go on then, let’s see you hurt me. I probably deserve it. And she’s bringing the blade to the points I’ve shown her, armpit, gut, right there at the crotch, and hells, she’s doing it on purpose, ‘course she is, there’s a spark in her eyes I haven’t quite seen before. Like a flint as it takes. 

It’s like we’re dancing – nearest I’ll ever bloody come to it anyway. And I think come on then, you little wildling, let’s see what you’ve got and then I think, fuck, she could actually bleed me, and get the damned thing off her.

I get my own back, push a bit further, bring her hand up and her dagger with it right up to my throat, but she looks at me, not afeared, just - waiting. And I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing and I turn it into a joke and fall backwards, doing my best dying. She gives me her hand to help me up and I could pull her right down onto me but I let her tug and keep her hand a while too long instead. 

Gods, she is slipping under my skin. Truer than any blade.

***

He let her lead today, occasionally letting her know where to turn. The land seemed to be changing slowly as they edged further north – darker, and more green. There was the scent of Jack-by-the-hedge, crushed under the horse's hooves. A big bird, an eagle of some kind, wheeled around in circles above them, an occasional cry like the release of an arrow. 

Sansa could feel his eyes on her, and thought over and over about their sword-game. The blade at his thigh. She couldn't quite believe that she had dared. His hands clasped around hers on the dagger haft, and his look.

***

I watch her hips roll with her mare. She turns her chin over her shoulder to check where we’re going of a time and with each look she’s killing me. I thought – I don’t know – that she’d be all high and mighty and it’s true she’s as proud as seven hells but – I don’t know. 

That eagle’s been following for us for a league, maybe two. Waiting for my damned corpse, probably. And I think like a rhyme, like a song, _she’s a girl, just a girl, just a girl_.

***

As the sun sat high in a flawless indigo sky, their path ran abreast of a wide river, grey-gold and glittering. They stopped to fill their skins and let the horses drink at a shallow bend where the lively water slowed a little. 

Sansa knelt down on the bank, crushing wildflowers and nettles, and leant down to splash her face, Sorrel snorting through her nose behind her and munching the grass. The water was sharp, and deliciously refreshing. She'd been feeling groggy all morning, with a thick throat, and this cleared her head a little. As she went to scoop up more water, she saw a shadow, the length of her forearm, weave past. And another. 

She sat back on her heels and turned round to Sandor. 'There are fish in here.' He looked over from where he stood further down the bank with Stranger. 'Big ones.' 

He tied Stranger's reins to a slim birch tree and walked over to her, peering into the river. Three more large fish lazily drifted past, turning a little in the light. 

'Trout,' he said, and began shrugging off his armour. He removed it, piece by piece, leaving it in a pile in the grass, followed by his mail, which came off in a tangle, and sat heavily down. 'Coming in?' He unselfconsciously tugged off his boots. 

She couldn't tell if he was joking or not. 'To do what?' 

'To catch one.' He stood up, wearing just his breeches and shirt, and rolled the sleeves up. 

Sansa squinted up at him, astonished, as he stood at the river edge, looking at the rushing water. His feet were bare and there was dark hair on his pale, thick-calved lower legs and ankles. 

Sandor sat down at the edge, before using a hand to lever himself in. The water went up to his shins, then his knees, soaking the lower legs of his breeches, but he didn't seem to care. 

He waded out into the middle and turned around to her. 'It's not that cold, you know.’ 

'I can't.’ 

He frowned at her, mock-impatiently. 

'I've only got - this dress.’

He looked at her keenly for a second, grinned and shrugged. 'Suit yourself.' He bent over, staring into the water. 

Without his armour on – she almost never saw him without it, he'd even slept in it - he seemed lighter of heart, and much less ferocious. And he didn't seem to care one bit about being in the water, and in front of her in a state of relative undress. She felt bold. She stood up, and began to undo the fastenings at the back of her bodice.

***

She spots trout in the river when we’re resting the horses. Takes me back to being about as tall as her little sister, in the moats at home with Fetch. 

Fetch taught us – both of us, before Gregor got the blackblood – how to trap, hunt, how to wait. He’d spin stories I was too young to hear under his ale-breath while we sat quiet, waiting for pheasants to roll on over, hares to get cocky. And he taught us to catch fish with our hands, said we wouldn’t always have a net or an arrow, said we should be able to let the gods’ own kind come right into our fingers, that we were all part of the same mud and blood as them. Gregor would be too impatient and thrash off, cursing. But I’d wait, and they’d come. 

So in I go, up to my knees, back in the moat again. She won’t come in, of course – too damned proper for that, no matter what’s gone on. 

And then I look up and she’s wriggling out of her dress and I think my heart’s fucking stopped. 

***

By the time Sandor leant up again, Sansa was standing in her white linen smock, which reached just below her knees. Her dagger belt was wound on her leg just above her boots. As he caught sight of her, he seemed to freeze, startled. 

She stepped out of the circle of her dress as it sagged to the ground, blushing unimaginably, but doing her very best to appear nonchalant. Her mind raced as she sat down with her back to him to undo her boots and pull off her short stockings and dagger belt. She already wished that she could stop and return to being dressed on the bank, but it was too late now. 

Taking a deep breath, she swung around to him. ‘It had better not be cold,’ she said in the most ordinary voice that she could muster. 

He didn’t say anything, watching as she hung her legs over the edge of the bank.

The water was cold, but she could manage it. The pools around Winterfell could be so icy that you couldn’t swim in it for more than a few, gasping breaths. Robb, Jon and Theon would take it turns to see how long they could last, their torsos almost blue when they finally emerged. She lowered herself into the water, it immediately reaching her knees and darkening the lower material of her smock. She waded through the long, thick stems of white crowfoot over towards Sandor, her arms outstretched as she tried to balance, her toes squelching in the mud. 

He was still looking at her slightly agape, before seeming to come to his senses and bringing a finger to his lips. She stopped a few paces away from him and looked down into the water. Nothing but a few long, stringy weeds. 

Sandor slowly leant down, put his arms in the water and hung there, motionless. After what seemed a long while, he abruptly righted, holding a trout in his hands, which wriggled frenziedly. He wrestled with it, trying to keep hold of it, before it shot out of his hands and back into the water, whipping away. 

Sansa shouted a laugh at the shock and suddenness of it, and clapped her hand over her mouth. 

Sandor looked at her in surprise, before pretending to look peevish. ‘Your turn, then.’

Still giggling, Sansa leant down and let her arms fall into the water, trying to keep her limbs as still as possible in the sway of the river. Her hair slipped over her shoulders, the ends falling into the water. She was conscious that her smock hung slightly away from her body, and that the skin just below her neck was totally exposed. A leaf shaped like a little rowboat sailed past her arms. She saw a couple of much smaller fish, the size of her little finger, swim past. Her lower back started to ache a little. 

***

She’s coming towards me, a damned wraith - bare feet, all pale-calved, that white underdress hanging to her knees - like she’s come to ghost right through me, howling in my ears. I’m standing there with my jaw severed and remember why I’m there and shush her, shove my hands in the river. I show her – badly, as it happens – how to hang, still as a reed, how to catch it. I lose the fucking thing and it’s her go, and then I’m allowed to look. 

Knee-deep in river, in her bloody underthings. I can see the skin of her, below her neck, a little pulse going. Fuck. 

***

A dappled brown trout swam past one of Sansa’s legs, and another, large and deft, with its thin, rose-coloured horizontal stripe. She held her breath, desperately trying not to move. Part of her wanted to scream very loudly and race out of the water. 

Suddenly a trout was there between her hands and she grabbed it, straightening. The fish was slippery, flapping about frantically. She yelled gleefully, trying to hold it. Sandor moved quickly up to her. The fish slithered from her grasp but he managed to catch it, hold it tight, and stride, splashing dramatically, to the bank, where he threw it down. 

The trout thrashed about on the grass, tail and head flailing against the ground in panicked throes, almost bouncing itself back to the water. Sandor gave a curious, strangulated yelp and kept flinging it a bit further away from the river, but the fish didn’t stop floundering. Finally, he leapt onto the bank, water flying everywhere, grabbed a large stick and bashed it on the head three times until it finally stopped moving. 

Sansa, still in the middle of the river, was laughing her head off. She couldn’t help it. It was the funniest thing that she’d seen in a long, long time.

Sandor looked round at her, dripping wet, as she stood in the middle of the river in hysterics. ‘Glad you find it so amusing,’ he said, pretending to be offended and flopping down next to the dead trout. 

She slowly waded back to the bank against the drag of the river, teetering a little in the mud, and pulled herself up onto the bank, giggling helplessly. She sat down next to him, clutching her sides. ‘I’m sorry. It was just – so funny. I’ve never - held a fish before.’ And she burst into fresh peals of laughter. 

He grinned at seeing her so unaffectedly joyous and flung his fingers in the air, sending water flying. 

Sansa calmed a little, putting her hand to her forehead. ‘My head hurts.’ 

He shook her head at her. ‘You great daft thing.’ He flicked a drop of river in her direction.

She gave a big sigh, her laughter finally subsiding, and rubbed her face. ‘Do we need to make a fire?’ 

Sandor looked about him. ‘Not in the middle of the day, it’ll slow us down.’

‘How do we eat it then?’ 

‘Just as it is,’ he said, lying down on the bank, his hands behind his head. 

Sansa wrinkled her nose, slightly appalled. ‘Raw?’ 

He closed his eyes, enjoying the sun. ‘Ay. Raw.’ 

She swallowed, looking at the trout. ‘You’ll eat anything, won’t you?’ 

Sandor snorted. ‘When you’re out at war, in stinking tents in the woods, and not enough food is cooked for you because there are too many men and not enough coin, you start being imaginative. So yes, I do eat almost anything. Birds, squirrels, snails, nettles, crazy laughing she-wolves…’ 

Sansa grinned self-consciously at the ground, took her dagger out of her ankle strap on the ground and handed it to him. 

He sat up. 

‘Better show me how it’s done, then,’ she said, whilst putting her hand to her head again. It really did hurt.

Sandor slit open the belly of the trout and dug his fingers in, poking at the innards until they slithered out, slopping into the grass. He flattened out the fish, chopped off the head, and sawed on the top of the spine until it came free. Swiftly tugging free the spine, he peeled it away, most of the fine bones coming with it. He took the flapping fillet to the river and rinsed it, cleaning away the rest of the innards, and slapped it back on the grass. Sandor cut away at a small piece of flesh, removing the skin, and handed it to Sansa. She took it and eyed it warily, then sat up straight, took a deep breath, and bit into it. 

It was stringy and her stomach turned slightly as the flesh snagged between her teeth. But it was also cold, and meaty, and seemed to taste of the sharp, clear river. She ate it as best she could, watching him saw off himself a larger piece and gnaw at it indelicately. 

She wondered what her family would think of her, sitting there in her smock, her bare lower legs glistening with little droplets, next to a man who had been sworn to serve the Lannisters, who they’d last seen in a fearsome dog helm. Well, at least Arya would be impressed with the fish-catching, though perhaps pull a face about the state of her undress. Her mother would be horrified. At that moment, ravenous, her hair as tangled as a wildling’s - and with him giving her an occasional sly glance from underneath his falling hair, thinking she wasn’t noticing - she really didn’t care too much. 

***

We have a fight with a fish, damned thing’s as slippery as the eunuch, and I end up having to smash its head in on the bank. I turn round and Sansa’s laughing so bloody hard, it’s falling out of her like she is the damned river and hells, she’s so fucking beautiful. She makes me want to gather all the fish from in there and chuck them at her just to make her squeal like that some more, and I want to be the fish slipping through her fingers. 

She’s on the bank now, still laughing like a dungeon lunatic. It’s like King’s Landing has been gripping her by the back, and has loosed, claw by claw, is almost gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta for reading! Do let me know what you fink!


	8. Chapter 8

Sandor seemed to be leading them into thicker woods, and they were slowing all the while. The horses weren’t happy, snorting through their nostrils as they picked their way over mounds and hollows. 

Sansa ducked a low branch. ‘Where are we going?’ 

He pointed upwards. ‘Rain.’ 

Mottled clouds hung overhead in between the gaps in the branches. They didn’t look so bad to her, but the air did seem to hum with tension, waiting. It was as if a leather belt was tightening around her forehead.

The rain started plashing, drop by heavy drop, not long afterwards, and the wood lost almost all its light. Spots darkened her cloak and fell on her face, even with the hood. Sorrel grumbled, her ears twitching. 

In the gloom, Sansa peered ahead to see Sandor dismount. 

‘There’ll be no fires tonight.’ He sounded like he almost relished it. 

She screwed her face up into the air. ‘Maybe it’ll stop soon.’ The rain seemed to hear her, and begin to lash down more heavily. 

They grabbed their blankets and bundles as it became a downpour. Sansa wrapped herself up in her blanket and crouched under an overhanging broom bush. Sandor was a little distance off, his hood over his head. She tucked her head into her chest, realising how lucky they’d been not to have any rain until now. There was nothing to do but sit and wait for it to be over.

It didn’t stop. Sansa was soaked through, the water like cold palms pressing on her arms and legs. 

‘Fuck this,’ she heard Sandor mutter, before he got up, throwing his blanket aside. He disappeared into the bushes. 

Her shelter seemed to be dissolving above her, the rain as heavy as pebbles on her head. The thought of it lasting all night made her utterly despondent. It was all very well for him - his armour at least kept the rain off. She was in nothing but wool, worsted and linen. Her throat scratched. She began shivering uncontrollably, wondering where he’d gone.

‘We’re in luck.’ Sandor was suddenly standing over her. She looked up at him miserably. ‘Come on.’ 

She put a hand down, right into a blotchy pool of mud. With her dress plastered to her legs and clutching her wet blanket to her, she dragged her feet after him, slipping slightly in the leaf-mulch. He crashed through a blackthorn bush, which sprang back in her face. She picked her way through it, tiny thorns snagging on her cloak, to find him holding up some branches for her to pass underneath. She bent under his arm and straightened out to see an ancient yew tree, its great trunk as wide as a cart, and perfectly hollowed-out, with an arched opening. It looked like a house for a grumkin. She looked up at him gratefully. 

He grinned at her, his hair stuck to his face. ‘I’ll get the horses.’

The hollowed trunk was spacious enough for them both. Sandor threw in their bundles before ducking down and thunking to the ground, groaning, pushing his wet hair away from his face. Sansa was suddenly aware again of how much bigger than her he was - his frame seemed to blot out what little evening light there was. 

She sat up against the bark and lay her head against it, the rotten wood sweetly pungent-smelling, wiping her muddy hand on the wall. A woodlouse scuttled away from her. She felt dazed. 

Sandor made a loud, self-conscious sigh, and looked over to her with half a smile. 

She gazed at him opaquely. 

‘It’s just rain,’ he said. ‘You’ll dry.’ 

‘I know,’ she said in a small voice. 

He frowned at her, seeming uncomfortable that she wasn’t so good-humoured as she’d been that afternoon. Rummaging in his saddlebag, he pulled out some bread and offered it to her. She shook her head. 

‘You always want to eat,’ he said.

Sansa swallowed, and winced. Her throat felt spiky, like she’d been eating gorse thorns. ‘I’m not hungry.’ 

‘You will be.’ He waggled it in front of her face. 

She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. 

‘Suit yourself, then,’ he said quietly, and she heard him ripping the bread with his teeth.

***

After everything – the fires, the rabbits, the trout - she’s pretty bloody soft on the rain. Starts coming down and it’s like she’s never been rained on before. She goes very quiet and a bit sour-faced. Well, none of us like the bloody rain, but you don’t have to look so damned soupy about it. Still, it’s only getting worse so I go looking for proper shelter. Beginning to feel a bit guilty about not putting a roof over her head. 

By some bloody miracle, there’s a big yawn of a tree, an old hollowed-out trunk wide enough for both of us. I get her in and me after. Nearest I’ve been to her, for sleeping. She looks pretty damned grouchy over it though and I think, what, have I not done enough for you, girl? She won’t eat - her, with a stomach like a bloody endless cave. 

Hope to the gods that I don’t smell as bad as I think I do, rain steaming off me. Maybe that’s why she’s scrunched up as far away from me as she can get. Gods, the rain. Horses won’t be happy. She goes to sleep, head tucked away so I can hardly see her. 

She keeps shivering, juddery little breaths, so I put my cloak over her knees. Hells, I wish I had wine.

***

Sansa slept fitfully, gnarled yew roots prodding into her back, however much she shifted around. The rain was relentless, sheets of water coursing down outside and puddling into their shelter. Her head throbbed and her throat itched. Sandor had shoved his legs outwards and was snoring peacefully. One boot rested against her calf. 

He seemed unruffled by the cold, or the rain, or the lack of food. In winter, he’d probably just curl up in the snowdrifts like a cat in a basket. The further away they got from King’s Landing, the lighter he seemed. She gave a sudden shiver. 

***

She wakes me up early, jerking around like a rabbit in a wire. She’s flung her cloak off, and mine, so I steal it back. Her eyes are shut and she’s bashing her head a bit on the trunk, saying something, over and over like a healer’s spell, something like _send the head back, send the head back_. Her voice isn’t her own, she sounds like a child, that or a crone, as old as this tree. 

And then she’s awake, and her face looks like clay. 

***

Everything was quiet. The rain had stopped and there was an earthy smell, like toadstools, in the air. Light the colour of milk-vetch filtered down. Sandor was looking at her, a faintly worried expression on his face. His foot was no longer touching her leg. 

She opened her mouth to speak and coughed instead, her throat scratching. 

‘You alright?’ he asked, looking gruffly awkward.

Her head felt as heavy as a boulder. ‘I think I have a malady.’ 

‘You were mumbling something.’ 

She put her hand to her cheek. It was burning. ‘I don’t remember.’ 

He thrust a waterskin at her. ‘Better drink.’ 

Every swallow she took hurt. She let her head fall against the bark again. 

Sandor chewed on his thumbnail, frowning at her. ‘Think you can move?’ 

He probably hadn’t done much nursing, she thought ruefully. ‘Ay.’ 

A flash of shock crossed his face then and she realised that she’d unthinkingly used one of his most common expressions. 

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Sorrel will see you right.’

They rode slowly, side by side when the path was wide enough, with her mare seeming aware that she was weaker, and moving with care and quietness. Sandor kept eyeing her with a discomfited concern. Sansa had a raging thirst and had drunk all the water from both of their skins. 

They rode up on a high ridge, which eventually lay abreast of a stream, far below, masked by densely tangled undergrowth. 

Sandor trotted his horse back to her. ‘Wait here.’ He leant over and took her waterskin. ‘I’ll fetch more water.’ He took Stranger up and down the path, searching for a way down, and disappeared into the bushes.

Sansa leant down on her saddle and hugged Sorrel, putting her fingers in her mane, angry with herself and trying to remember the last time she’d felt so horrible. She didn’t want to be seen as useless all over again, after all the progress she’d made in impressing him. Becoming a wolf-wildling. She realised that she urgently needed to relieve herself and slid off her mare, tying her to a branch. She staggered off the path and behind a tree and crouched down, closing her eyes.

‘Who’s this, then?’ A man’s voice, rough-accented, cut through her foggy thoughts like a longsword.

***

Great. I’ve an ailing waif on my hands. She looks like she’ll drop off her damned mare any moment. I can only do what I know - food, water, moving. I’ll get her to an inn at least. We must be near Fernback or one of those other poxy little villages. I hate the thought of us being recognised – there’s only so many men I can kill. If it’s a search party, we’re fucked. 

Never had much sickness as a grown man. I trawl through my memories, trying to recall what my mother might have given me when I was young. She liked the healing plants, as Sansa seems to, though Father wasn’t so keen, seemed to think it akin to witchcraft. Some sort of lemon paste, I think, lemon and herbs and – fuck’s sake. Where’s a bloody maester when you need one.

Stranger’s not wanting to bloody move. Even he’s a grumpy bastard this morning, wants a stable and not being rained on, probably. I pull his head out of the river and start shoving his arse back up the slope.

And I hear them. Voices.

***

Sansa abruptly righted herself and thwacked her head on a branch. She brought a hand to her skull and turned round. Three men, looking at her curiously. They were dressed in mismatched mail and dented armour, muted colours. There were no banners and she couldn’t tell whom they might be affiliated with, if anyone. Two of them had broadswords and the other leaned on a longbow.

‘Who – what do you want?’ She hoped that she sounded fearless.

‘We want to know who you are and why you’re pissing on our path,’ said the man in the centre. A southern country accent. Tall, thin and bearded, with a scar across one cheek. 

She clenched her jaw and removed her hand from her head, standing straight and looking him in the eye. ‘I’m no one.’ 

‘Ha! I find that hard to believe,’ said the arrowman on the right, spitting on the ground on front of him. He had a mouthful of black, broken teeth and sounded like a northerner.

They could be sworn to her brother. If she was lucky, she might be able to get back to her family even sooner. ‘Who do you fight for?’ she asked. 

‘No one, same as you,’ said the first man. ‘No one but ourselves, anyway.’ Her heart sank. He narrowed his eyes, chewing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, and looked her up and down. ‘What’s your business, going through here?’ 

‘Nothing’, she blurted, too loudly. ‘I’m just – heading to the next village.’ 

‘What village is that, then?’ asked the third man, a small, stout swordbearer with a strange, bloodshot eye.

Sansa’s heart beat wildly. ‘I don’t know it’s name. I’m just – looking for my cousin. I’ve a message for her, from – my mother.’ 

The second man had wandered over to Sorrel and was stroking her neck idly, while examining the saddlebag. 

The tall, bearded one took a step closer and leant down, almost benevolently, speaking to her as if she was a small child. ‘You’re not very convincing.’ He scrutinised her with an almost kindly expression, and she flinched under it, lowering her eyes. 

‘She’s very pretty, though,’ said the third man from behind him. 

‘She is.’ He seemed to be acting a part in play. Then he straightened up, took a sudden breath in, and spoke quickly and straightforwardly, as if haggling over the price of an apple. ‘Well, the usual punishment for a lady who pisses on our land is to lie with us, all three. Who d’you want first?’

The panic that hit Sansa was a blow to the stomach. ‘N- no,’ she said, backing away. 

‘We won’t bite,’ he said in a sing-song voice, smiling at her. She turned to run. ‘Not unless you want us to.’ 

Sansa bolted. He grabbed her elbow, swift as lightning, and held it firmly. She wriggled madly - the trout flailing on the bank - and as he tried to grab her round the waist, suddenly got free. She leant down to her ankle to grab her dagger. As she pulled it out, the black-mouthed man was suddenly there, and kicked it out of her hand. 

She was still bent down and he grabbed her shoulder, stamping violently on her wrist. She fell to the ground, pinned by his foot, and as she did, her wrist turned awkwardly and something snapped. A sharp, blinding pain shot up her arm. She cried out, arching her back, her arm outstretched, the boot squashing her hand into the ground. 

The bearded one stood over her, his hands on his hips, shaking his head. ‘Blimey,’ he said to his companion. ‘She’s a bit of a feisty one.’ 

‘It’s that hair,’ said the other. ‘They say redheads have a bit of wildling in ‘em.’ 

‘Hhm.’ The first man pressed his lips together and looked at her mildly. ‘I’ve always wanted to fuck a wildling.’ Sansa whimpered. He began to unbuckle his mailbelt. ‘Well, I saw her fir –‘ 

He suddenly thrust his chest forward. There was a startled expression on his face, and he toppled slowly towards her, crashing down on her side, an arrow in his back. 

The other man looked round wildly. ‘Fuck,’ he breathed, pulling his sword out and taking his boot off her wrist, which felt as limp and useless as a doll’s. A deep fire of pain shot through to her shoulder.

She rolled the tall man off her, sobbing as he wheezed a last breath. The arrow snapped in two underneath him. As she sat up, she could see the other man running back towards the path, sword in hand, before he stopped short, an arrow suddenly in his stomach, and wheeled round, crumpling to the ground. 

Dazed, Sansa stood up. She could hear more shouting and a horse trumpeting horribly. Her hand hung strangely, thumb too far away from her wrist. A glimpse of white bone. The trees around her blurred, tilted, and the crushed leaves on the ground came rushing up towards her.

***

It’s like someone’s put a cold blade to the front of my throat, and I move fast. And do what I do best.

Two men. One’s on her hand. She yells. Other one’s hand is on his belt buckle, sword dropping to the ground. Backs to me. I’m too far. Loose an arrow, pray to the gods. 

He falls, practically on her. The other runs, but he’s blind. I get him, stomach. Third man’s at the mare, slashing her at the belly, fumbling for his bow, all thumbs. I’m in him before he can pull back and bring my sword up, up through him, until he bubbles and is down. Second man’s still moving, not much, and I smash my boot on his face and slice his neck and he doesn’t move then. 

She’s crumpled up, a pile, like she’s boneless. I bring her up to me, sitting, hit her cheeks a bit, hard as I can without bloody scaring her, but she’s not really there, eyes like fogged glass, limp as anything. 

I check her - dress isn’t torn, gently lift it up, just a little, please don’t be scared Sansa, tip her towards me, have a look at her back, her shoulders. No marks on her. Her wrist’s fucked, nothing else as far as I can see. But fucking hells, she’s all over the place. I put the back of my hand on her forehead and she’s blazing like a furnace and I say _come on Sansa, wake up, you’re alright now, it’s me, you’re alright_ , and she looks at me and the fog clears just for a moment and she says _don’t leave me_ in a faraway voice like she’s away past the Wall and then she’s gone again. 

I pick her up, carry her to Stranger and go to the mare. She’s lying, knees buckled, heaving, a great ugly slash in her belly. The cunt. I put a hand between her ears, talk soft to her, tell her she did well and that she’s alright, and throat her, quick as I can, end her properly. The blood becomes a lake around her head.

Stranger’s quiet - he knows she’s gone. Blows through his nose at me, no more, as I load up Sansa’s bundles. She’s like a haybale, sticking out awkwardly, and I haul her onto the horse, get myself up behind her quick as I can before she slumps off. Stranger jerks forward and I have to give him a kick to make him move, and get out of here as fast as possible.

She wakes and sleeps, and again, a little wave breaking. I’ve got her hoisted to me, arm round her waist, least romantic thing ever. Fuck, come on, Sansa. Maybe it’s the shock. And she’s got a fever, I’m sure of it. Maybe they did get her – I daredn’t look that far. Fuck. 

We ride and I’m killing them over and over, harder, more guts spilled, blood, screaming, and I’d do it a thousand times. Her head’s rolling like her neck’s just twine, and I tip it back towards me before she hurts herself. There’s a pain in my stomach like I’m the one who’s been sliced.

***

Moths were in her ears. Fluttering, trapped against her skull, trying desperately to get free. She was on a boat, swooning up and down, the back of her head rolling and thudding against something soft. The thin green taste of wildfire liquid was sloshing up and down in her throat. She could almost see it, a long trickle winding down inside her and suddenly rising up again. And bright woods, golden, full of soldiers ten feet tall and skeletal, their spears pointing up towards the sun. 

And she was nestling in a wolf’s arms. 

***

I’m not fussing over being spotted now. We ride on the bigger tracks, and stop at the first place we come to, a smallholding, goats and chickens and a stable. A man comes out, sees me and swift as anything goes inside again. 

Out comes a woman, youngish, folding her arms at me, frowning. She takes in my face, and Sansa, and asks if she’s well. I say _what does it bloody look like_ and she says _I’m not bloody helping you if you’re going to be like that_ and I swallow my pride down and try to remember that killing her isn’t going to help with this none, and tell her I’ve coin and don’t snap. Her face goes a bit softer, and I lift Sansa off, and carry her in.

The woman bustles in ahead of me, takes me straight into a bedroom, theirs it looks like. Bedsheets all amiss. I lower Sansa down, gentle as I can, and she looks at me properly for a half-breath and my heart damned near breaks. 

The woman picks up her arm and looks at me hard. _Not me_ , I say, thinking I’ll break _your_ bloody arm if you as much as suggest that again. I tell her about the men, leaving out all the killing, though her eyes are roving over the blood on my armour – the third one spilt plenty. She gets me to hoist Sansa up to get her dress taken off and I’m looking everywhere but at her. 

_Heweg_! the woman yells, loud enough to wake the Others, not that Sansa as much as blinks. I say, _I don’t know if_ – and I can’t fucking say it, and she doesn’t understand for a moment until I look at my feet and then she says _alright, out you go, I’ll have a good look at her_ , and damned near pushes me out of the door. Her man comes in with a bucket of water, just gives me a nod and a smile, calm, as if to say we’ll see you right.

I pace outside. Those fucking cunts. They had their hands on her. Had her on the ground. Who were they? Mummers? Bandits? We’re not all that far from Harrenhall now, and Gregor. If they’re anything to do with him, or a search party – I don’t know if they knew her face. Didn’t stop to ask. Well, let them fucking come. I’ll fucking take them all if I have to die trying. 

There’s a hen at my feet, feathers golden red, and I don’t know whether to kick it or bury my face in it. Gods, can’t stand waiting. 

The woman’s just pulling a smock over Sansa’s legs - I see her thighs, her knees. As long and pale as new candles. She bids me come to the bed, rolls Sansa to me a bit so she can cover her with the bedclothes. She’s as cold as anything now, river mud. Hells. I can feel her bones under my fingers. The woman tucks her in, says _she’s not been touched_ , and I nod, feeling like all my breath’s dropped down to my gut. 

I say _what do you think’s wrong_ and she says _a fever, and the shock of that_ , jerking her head at Sansa’s wrist. 

Her man – Heweg, it was – has come back in with a pile of rags and a handful of young sticks, willow maybe. I watch her clean up the wrist. There’s not much blood, but you can just see the bone – her fucking bone – and it makes me want to put my fist through the window. She soaks the rags and uses two of the sticks and wraps her up. Sansa’s not moved. 

_How bad is it_? I ask and the woman shakes her head, says _we’ll just wait and see_ , and they go out of the room for a bit.

I stand looking at her. My little bird. Not yours, dog. Her lips are just apart, like she’s about to whistle, head to the side. Hair spread out all over the damned place. I’ve never felt so fucking helpless. I crash into the chair in the corner, pick up her dress and her smock. It’s like I’m holding her in my hands, like she’s falling between my fingers, like I’m breathing her in. They smell of hay and mud and sweat and meadowflowers. 

Gods, don’t bloody die on me, Sansa.

I don’t move. The woman, Elisota – she thrusts her name at me as if expecting mine in return – comes back with candles, brings some food. Puts rags on Sansa’s brow, and has a good squint at me. 

_Maybe I should take a look at you and all_ , she says. I say _leave me be, woman, I can look after myself_ and she says _that’s as maybe but you’re holding your shoulder low_. 

She helps me get my armour off and I eye her as she gestures for my shirt and she says _oh, I’ve seen plenty in my time, big man, you won’t surprise me_. 

And it’s true, the wound’s looking angry as a dragon, and she fetches more water and I sit there, eyes on Sansa, thinking well here we are little bird, in a chamber with half our clothes off. Elisota comes back and scrubs at it like it’s a stain on the wall and puts on a poultice and wraps me up tight. She’s trying to get the truth from me all the while – she doesn’t seem to know either of us so I spin her a story. I give Sansa’s name as Fira. First thing that comes into my head.

Sansa sleeps for a day, and more. I take a candle over to her in the night and she looks like a bloody corpse, fucking terrifies me. But I see her chest rising, and falling, just enough. Heweg brings me wine - a man after my own heart even if he seems to be fucking mute. I don’t sleep. What if she dies? What would it all have been for? Then I think shut up you bloody fool, you got her out, didn’t you? What did you bloody expect? And I know the answer and I won’t look it in the face and just sit there, the damned goats stuttering like raving madmen.

She starts her dreaming again and I think, maybe she’ll be alright. It’s like she’s under a maegi’s hand, flicking her head, fingers twitching. She shouts and mumbles, tangled words tumbling out of her, and I hear _Bran_ and _never go there_ and _she wasn’t lying_. 

Later she says _Sandor, please stay here_ and I say _I’m not going anywhere little bird_ , but she’s already under again and doesn’t hear. 

I finish the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers for all your comments!


	9. Chapter 9

She was dreaming again, of being in a bed. Tucked in with heavy, starched linen, like someone was lying on her. Her feet sought the corners of the bed, as cool as the shadows made by dappled sunlight in a wood. 

A woman was looking at her, seated very close, her face warm with concern. She was perhaps ten years older than Sansa, with a ruddy complexion and wisps of wiry brown hair tucked under a thin white cap. 

‘Alright, lass?’ She spoke softly, with the round inflections of a northerner. 

‘Am I home?’ Her own voice sounded very far away, as if floating leagues above her. 

‘Don’t think so,’ said the woman. ‘Unless you want to live on a poor goat farm with a man who snores too much.’

Sansa lifted her eyes. She was lying in a large bed in a small room with one high window that had a murky, thick pane. The stone walls bulged and were roughly whitewashed. She was in a smock - not her own. The woman put a cool palm against Sansa’s forehead. 

‘Better,’ she said, and not to Sansa. Sandor was standing up in the furthest corner of the room, his head almost touching the ceiling. His face looked drawn. 

‘I’ll be downstairs, then,’ he said to the woman, and slipped out of the door.

***

Elisota has been as cool as anything but I see her face change after the second night, brightening. She says _the fever’s broken I reckon_ and though I can’t see much difference I take her at her word.

She’s with us when Sansa starts murmuring, like a dove’s come to roost, and opens her eyes. I jump up and practically crack my skull open on the ceiling. Her eyes have lost that seaweed look and she begins to turn her head, finally seeing. She’s alright. I duck away, feeling like my fever’s broken and all.

I go to Stranger’s stall. He harrumphs as if to say _where the hells have you been_ and I whack him on the rump and feel my legs go, my ears fill with hay.

***

Sansa swallowed dryly. The woman leant down and brought up a cup and held it to her lips. She gulped it slowly, feeling the water wind down her throat and into her stomach, and lay her head back on the pillow, exhausted. ‘What – where am I?’ 

‘You’re in my house. In my bed, in fact, not that me and Heweg are so bothered when we’re being paid for the pleasure.’ 

Sansa wished her mind didn’t feel so muddy. Her arm was lying folded diagonally over her chest on top of the sheets. A thin stick ran along the length of each side of her wrist, and her forearm and hand had been wrapped in white strips. She tried to move it. 

It was as if someone had stabbed a fork in her hand. ‘ _Ow_.’ 

‘I wouldn’t move that too much, if I were you,’ said the woman, looking at her sagely. ‘I’m no healer, but I’ve bound it up as best I could.’

‘What - happened?’ 

‘You had a fever.’ The woman put the cup back down. ‘A bad one, too. Reckon you would have gone to ground even if you hadn’t been attacked.’ 

Oh Gods. The men. The two of them running her down. The arrows. She tried to move. ‘Am I better, do you think?’ 

‘You’ll be fine. Maybe another day or two. Though I’ll be happy to have this mattress back after all that sleeping with the goats.’ 

_All_ that sleeping? ‘How long have I been here?’ 

The woman looked at her simply. ‘You’ve been asleep for two days and nights, lass.’ 

‘Two days?’ Sansa said, wonderingly. 

‘Just as well you’ve got your big man looking out for you, whatever he is to you.’ 

Sansa looked at her. ‘Do you – do you think so?’ 

‘I reckon.’ The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘He hasn’t slept as far as I know in all the time you’ve lain there. Just sat here, waiting on you like a faithful hound.’ She gestured to the chair she was sitting in. 

Sansa took a long, deep breath in and closed her eyes.

***

Must be half a day before I come to. Been dreaming – head’s been shaken about like a bloody bag of pebbles. Cave lions swatting my face and boats breaking apart and worms swarming over peaches and one of the whores I saw more than once laughing her head off at me, then covering me up with bedcloth after bedcloth ‘til I can’t breathe. 

It’s night and I stumble inside. Elisota’s got Sansa’s dress on her lap and has a needle to it, yarn in mouth. Doesn’t stop her jawing to me though, whilst her man’s got his hands folded over her belly, round as a plum, listening. He brings out cards from his sleeve while she yaps away, and starts dealing them out to me. Fine, man, I’ll play shortdrift with you, you bloody silent wonder, let’s see how you speak with the cards. He keeps pouring me wine and all I’m thinking as he lays out another damned knight is – she’s alright.

***

Elisota and Heweg’s dwelling was some way east of the Kingsroad. They didn’t seem to have children. There were goats and chickens, and a field full of vegetables, all swelling in the late summer balm. Sansa regained her appetite very quickly once Elisota brought her roast chicken and carrot stew, and fresh-baked rye bread with goat’s buttermilk. And she had a bath. It was in not much more than a tin bucket, but it seemed to her to be the height of luxury, with warm water heated from their kitchen fire. The bathwater looked like a swamp after she stepped out of it. 

She realised that Sandor was paying the couple to look after them, but Elisota’s kindness seemed genuine. Sandor had told them that he was her father’s trusted friend and was escorting her north to get work in one of the big castles – Sansa had almost given them both away when Elisota had called her Fira and she’d protested. She’d explained it away by pretending to feel groggy. 

Elisota had stroked Sansa’s hair and said, ‘Did your mother call you that because of your locks?’ Sansa had asked what she meant. ‘Fira – fiery one. You must have known that.’

***

I wake back in the stables with a thick head and a mouthful of hay. Morning light might as well have me round the neck and be punching me in the face. I feel my coin bag. Lighter. That sly bastard. I walk around, get a bellyful of air, grab a few apples for Stranger, and finally bring myself to go up. 

Been putting it off. I’m afraid, somehow, to see her.

***

She was devouring cabbage soup and a hard, sour cheese when Sandor stooped his head through the doorway and stood there looking at her. She hadn’t seen him for the last day. He was eating an apple and looked much better than when she’d last glimpsed him. 

‘Got your wolf’s stomach back, then.’ He nodded at her rickety wooden tray. 

She smiled sheepishly at him, chewing cheese. She was using her good hand - her other arm had been strapped by Elisota with more linen strips around her chest and shoulder. 

He gestured to it. ‘How’s that?’ 

‘It hurts,’ she replied. ‘But – I’m sure it will get better.’ 

‘She seems to know what she’s doing,’ said Sandor, lifting his shoulder up to her. ‘She patched me up and all.’ He came and sat down in the wooden-framed chair next to her bed, taking his swordbelt off and squeezing his frame in. 

‘Do you really need your armour on in here?’ she said, watching him struggle. 

He settled awkwardly. ‘After our last run-in, I’m taking no chances.’

Sansa put her spoon down and looked at him seriously. ‘Sandor.’ He stopped crunching, his mouth full of apple pulp, and looked at her. ‘Thank you.’ He gave a slow smile and continued chewing, keeping his eyes fixed on her. ‘What did you - do?’ 

‘How did I kill them, you mean?’ He looked wry, and dark-eyed. 

She nodded. 

Sandor held up a finger. ‘Arrow in the back.’ He held up a second finger. ‘Arrow in the stomach. And a sliced throat, just to be sure.’ He added a third. ‘Sword through the belly of the worst arrowman in Westeros.’ He bit into his apple. 

Sansa gulped, trying not to look too impressed. ‘Who were they, do you think?’ 

He spoke while eating. ‘Bandits. Mummers. Or Brotherhood scouts, maybe.’ 

‘What’s that?’ 

‘You haven’t heard of them?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The Brotherhood without Banners. They were sent by your father to kill my brother. But they failed, and those that lived skulked off to form some mad faction of their own.’ He looked disdainful. ‘Robbing the rich, feeding the poor, that sort of thing. Though if it _was_ them, they weren’t very well abiding by their own rules to look after commonfolk. Unless they knew you were something more than common.’

Sansa was silent, remembering how they’d treated her, and what they’d planned to do. ‘Why did you call me Fira?’ He flinched, and shrugged offhandedly. She persisted. ‘You know what it means. You chose it on purpose.’ She paused. ‘You don’t _like_ fire.’ 

He leant towards her and narrowed his eyes, half-teasing. ‘It’s good to stare in the face of things you’re afraid of.’

‘You’re not afraid of _me_.’ She felt a little mournful. ‘Why did you name me after something you’re afraid of?’ 

He sat back slowly, avoiding her gaze, and rubbed his eye affectedly. ‘Your hair is the colour of fire. Every time I look at you I think of it. And it was my sister’s name.’ 

She stared at him, her forehead furrowing. There was surely no higher bestowment that she could have from him. It was plain that he’d cared very deeply for his sister. She offered him some cheese. He shook his head. 

‘When shall we be leaving?’ she asked. 

‘Soon as you’re ready.’

‘I’ll be better by tomorrow.’ 

‘Tomorrow, then.’ He looked at her seriously. ‘Sansa.’ 

She looked up at him, bright-eyed. He stared at her, biting his lip. She kept her eyes fixed on him, waiting. He took a deep breath in. 

‘What is it?’ she asked. 

‘It’s your horse.’ 

It wasn’t what she was expecting. ‘What – about her?’ 

‘The last man. He sighed raggedly. ‘I don’t know. I guess he could see his end coming. He cut her, out of spite.’ 

‘Cut her where?’ she asked, a lump rising in her throat. 

‘Across the belly.’ 

Sansa breathed in, sharply.

He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. ‘She – she wouldn’t have made it. I had to finish her.’ 

She felt her eyes begin to sting with tears. ‘How?’ she asked, her mouth almost closed. 

‘Slit her throat. Very quickly, very hard. She was dead straightaway.’ Sansa looked down at her soup. ‘I’ll get you another one.’ 

‘I don’t want another one,’ she said, tight-lipped, before realising how childish she sounded. ‘Sorry.’ She tried to ignore the tear rolling down her cheek. ‘Thank you.’

***

She’s sitting up, all bandaged, in that smock, and looking like – _her_ again. She’s eating, and giving me a smile and I realise I’ve been breathing tight for the last two days, balancing on a cliff-ledge. She gets out of me about calling her Fira and I sound like a bloody soft fool. I have to tell her about her mare, which damned near kills me. She has a proper little battle with her tears and I’m trying to look sad and ignore the part of me that’s looking forward to having her sitting up with me.

There’s a last night getting blindrobbed by Heweg and I bunk up in the stable again. The shoulder’s a bit better, even if my head’s dundered. Whatever she put on there must’ve worked. She’s bloody nosy, that one – tries to get out of me more of Sansa and who she is to me. Well if _I_ don’t bloody know I can’t tell you about it. She knows I’m lying, keeps prodding, though I don’t fall for it, at least I don’t think I bloody do, my head’s swooning by the end of it.

***

Elisota had packed them bread, cheese, a cabbage, carrots and tomatoes for their onward journey. Sandor stood awkwardly in their tiny kitchen, holding a dead grouse at the neck, as Sansa came into the room wearing one of the two dresses that he’d bought from Elisota. It was a little big for her around the waist, but fit well enough, and it was far cleaner than the dress she’d worn for days. The mustard-yellow gown had darker threads edging the neckline, large grey pleats in the skirt, and a leather belt. 

The farmwoman looked her up and down, wiping her hands on a rag. ‘Well, you wear it better than I, that’s for sure.’ She gave Sandor a sly sidelong look, which he studiously avoided, and then went to Sansa to help her wrap her arm up to her chest, turning her round to do so. ‘You need to keep an eye on that. See a maester or a healer if you can. It might fester.’ She handed Sansa a bundle, which she gathered to herself with her good arm. ‘There’s your other one, fresh and new, plus another of mine.’ 

‘Thank you,’ Sansa said, looking at her earnestly. ‘For everything.’ 

Elisota shushed her. ‘He paid us, remember? You should come here more often. You’re a better earner than our goats are.’ She smiled softly at her and cupped Sansa’s cheek. ‘You be safe, lass.’ She looked up at Sandor. ‘And you watch over her.’ She looked back at Sansa but kept speaking to him. ‘If she’s a lowborn, then I’m the next Queen of Westeros.’

Heweg, small and round, with eyes dark as raisins, was waiting outside with Stranger, who was saddled and prepared. He handed the reins to Sandor silently and helped attach their saddlebags and the limp grouse. The destrier had a lot more baggage now. 

Sansa put her hand up to Stranger’s neck. ‘Can he carry both of us?’

‘Look at him,’ said Sandor. Stranger brought his great head down and nuzzled her palm sloppily. ‘Course he can.’ He put his hands round her waist. ‘Ready?’ 

She nodded. He lifted her up, as easily as if she were a straw dummy. She grabbed onto the front of the saddle with her good arm and swung her leg over. He put his foot in the stirrup and launched himself up and behind her, his thighs encasing hers, his torso pressed right up to her back. Stranger harrumphed, taking a step forward. 

‘Shush, you,’ said Sandor, and took the reins from Heweg, who also handed him a wineskin, his eyes crinkling. Sandor nodded his thanks, linking it to his belt.

Elisota and Heweg watched them leave from the wonky gate of their smallholding, she shoving a hand through her husband’s arm at the elbow. Sansa turned her face back in the direction that they were heading. It was a hazy day, insects buzzing drowsily in the fields around them. ‘Heweg never spoke to me.’ 

‘Nor I,’ said Sandor at her ear. She tilted her head half-round to him. ‘Tried my best. Think she probably does all the talking for the both of them. Played cards with him, though. Sly bastard won a bag of coin off me without saying a damned word. And drank me under the table.’ 

She laughed under her breath and then grew silent, feeling his closeness to her. His arms were at her shoulders, holding Stranger’s reins. She could smell him. Leather and sweat and apples. She was desperately sad about Sorrel, but - she felt safe. Elisota had called him her ‘big man’. She liked that. He was. He’d killed those scouts to rescue her, and he’d sat at her bedside for days and nights waiting for her to wake up. 

She carefully tipped her chin back a little, felt the metal of his neck armour against her skull, and rested her head lightly to the side of it against his chest.

***

I go hunting for game on the morn, nab a grouse, and give Elisota more coin for all her trouble. I’m giving it away good as anything but I feel like I’m buying Sansa’s life back so she can have as much as she wants. 

Sansa comes in, all delicate like she’s testing an ice-lake. But her cheeks look like they’ve been scrubbed, and she’s wearing one of the farmwoman’s dresses – too big, but she could wear a bit of bloody sackcloth and look better than a damned queen. Elisota wraps her arm up to her shoulder. It makes her stand like a brave little battle-wounded soldier. 

And now - gods, she’s a damned sight more conscious than when she was last up here with me. But there’s no hiding her being tucked into me now, arse right up to my crotch. That hair’s under my chin, bold as a winter’s hearth. 

We head north again, weather changing slowly. She’s not embarrassed – seems perfectly bloody comfortable, actually. Her shoulders drop a bit and I can see that swancurve of her neck and try not to think about biting a big chunk out of her. She rests her head back against me – she smells as clean as fresh sheets. Hells. 

***

At their camp that night, Sandor wouldn’t let her do anything. He insisted on making the fire, preparing the grouse and cooking it, whilst she sat there, wrapped in a blanket. 

‘I’m not _dying_ ,’ she had protested idly, but he wouldn’t hear of it. She couldn’t help secretly grinning to herself, mildly gleeful at being practically waited on. It was like being a highborn all over again. 

He kept their fire strong, too, as they began to prepare to sleep. Sansa shifted herself up off the ground to wind the blanket more tightly round herself. 

‘Sansa, you –‘ He was sitting up against a tree. ‘You should –‘ he swallowed. ‘Come here.’ 

She got up slowly, wearing her blanket like a great, thick shawl and stepped towards him, waiting for his instruction. 

He looked at her, as if unsure of how to proceed. ‘Sleep here,’ he said, suddenly resolute, patting the ground with an overly grand gesture. She looked at him. ‘I don’t want you - catching another fever.’ 

Sansa hesitated for a moment, awkwardly, and knelt down, curling up on the ground on her side, her knees and face towards him. There was a silence. He pulled his own blanket over him and shifted down on his back. 

A crow rasped, far off.

***

Can’t help treating her like she’s a moth-wing all day and night. She hasn’t complained about camping out again, is just sitting there as if she’s on a pillowbed, giving me looks, so damned calm. 

I’ve a fear that the fever will grab her back. All those nights she was shaking and I was too in my cups to care, thinking, she _should_ shiver, like the rest of us. Hells, what an idiot. I bid her come lie next to me, waiting for her to blush and stomp off into the shadows. But she doesn’t. She rolls up like a little vole right there at my side. Right – _there_.

***

Sansa didn’t sleep for a long time. And nor did he. He’d snore if he were _really_ asleep. She lay very still, but occasionally, from where her head lay coddled in the blanket, raised her eyes carefully up to his face. He was lying with his hands clasped across his stomach, staring upwards. She could hear him blinking. Sandor suddenly began to turn towards her and she swiftly pretended to be asleep. He must have been lying on his side now, facing her. 

She daren’t open her eyes. Breathe deeply, she told herself. Stay very still. Breathe deeply. 

***

I’m being gnawed in the stomach by a bear. She’s as still as anything. The fire’s smacking its last, and each silence afterwards is like something stretching above me, trying to suck me in. Stars are grit in my eyes. I can sense the weight of her. I turn in to her, head on my elbow. All I’d have to do is put my hand out. 

She’s not asleep. Pretending with all her might, but not asleep.

***

_She was running and there were men behind her. Men from Fleabottom, cursing and yelling and chasing her. She was in a wood, barefoot, her feet bleeding from stones on the path, and suddenly the trees were turning into men too, one by one, unfolding their arms and smiling as they stepped towards her, wearing armour made of bark. She dodged them, and ran straight into Joffrey, all in gold. He flashed a grin as he held her by the throat and lifted her skirt with his sword._

Sansa sat bolt upright, her hand slamming into the ground, her other hand pushing at its bandage. 

‘It’s alright,’ came Sandor’s voice from the darkness, low and reassuring. 

Underneath her bound hand she could feel her heart hurling against her ribcage. The tall, thin shadows of the trees asserted themselves softly, and she could just make out Stranger’s haunch where he lay down. 

‘It’s just a dream.’ He was sprawled on his back again, hands clasped. His face was turned towards her. 

She felt like an idiot. ‘I’m sorry.’ She lay down on her back, feeling the thump of her heart as it calmed. 

‘You have a lot of bad dreams,’ he said, turning his face to the sky. 

Sansa looked up at the murky smudge of trees and dark sky, seeing the men from her dream, and from the riots, and her attackers in the woods. 

She took a big, uneven breath in and spoke quietly and fiercely. ‘Why do men – do that?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Cersei said that it’s when they get their blood up.’ The leaves quivered above them. ‘After a fight.’ 

He still didn’t respond. She gave up and shut her eyes. He didn’t care. She’d just woken him up with her nightmare, and he was annoyed and trying to sleep.

‘Not all men.’ The words were subdued. 

She opened her eyes again, staring straight upwards, feeling hollow and dully furious. ‘You said all men were killers. Why aren’t they all – rapists too?’ 

There was another long silence. ‘Is your brother Robb a rapist?’ 

Sansa felt a dim pain in her stomach. ‘No.’

‘Or your bastard brother?’ 

She thought of Jon, his soft voice, and his hunger to be brave and noble up there in the freezing wastes. ‘No.’ 

‘The other grown men at Winterfell. Your master-at-arms. Your maester. The captain of the guards. Before he was killed, anyway.’ 

She gave a small, tight sigh. ‘I don’t – no.’ 

‘And what about your father? He was many things, but he didn’t have a reputation for taking women, or letting his men do the same.’ 

Her heart sank as she thought of her father, before they’d gone to King’s Landing, putting his hand on her hair or wheeling her round after a feast, before she got too embarrassed for him to do that and would squirm away. ‘Yes. I mean - I know.’ 

They lay in silence. ‘Not all men, then.’ His voice was still low, and slightly guarded. 

Sansa took a deep breath, and shivered. ‘Sorry.’ She curled over on her side to face him, her forehead just touching his arm and her knees against his thigh. 

He didn’t move. Nor did she.

***

Nightmares again. I lie there, listening to her thrashing, wondering whether I should wake her, and how. Touch her arm? Her hair? Put my hands over her ears and kiss her awake -

She suddenly sits up, panicking, thinking she’s being attacked by rapers. Maybe that’s what she always dreams about. Starts asking why they do it. Gods, I could have done that to you a thousand times. It hurts, lumping me in with them. I’ve paid for plenty, but at least they make to look like they’re having a good roll around, most of the time. Having some lass screaming underneath me turns my stomach. I make her see sense, in my own way, and she lays a little closer. 

Her head’s resting against my elbow.

***

When Sansa woke up, it was light and Sandor was already up, seeing to Stranger. It’s true that she had been a little less cold last night, and slept well, after her dream at least. She watched him as he quietly moved about, trying not to wake her. He tipped some water onto his hand and splashed himself and mopped it into his hair. She found herself thinking of how he was not nine or ten days ago, a fierce, hate-filled warrior, hardly able to utter two kind words to her, and now - he’d made her into something stronger, brought out the wolf in her, and she’d softened him. She knew she had. 

He came over to her and picked up his blanket and she shut her eyes quickly, opening them again only as he walked away, rolling his blanket up and stretching his shoulders. She bit her lip, knowing that she was feeling more than just admiration, more than just gratefulness. 

Sandor walked back over to her, more loudly. She pretended to be asleep. His knees creaked as he crouched down next to her. A hand on her shoulder. Her stomach panged, a small, bruising sensation.

‘Come on, you.’ 

She took a deep breath in, and pretended to wake slowly, rolling over onto her back and looking dozily at him. 

His eyes crinkled a little. ‘Break your fast,’ he said, holding a bread roll alarmingly close to her face.

***

In the morning, I find I’ve slung my arm over her, whip it off quick as anything. Gods, this is getting hard. I want – I want everything I can’t have. I’m living in a bloody dreamworld, thinking I can be near her like this. Birthright never changes. I’m nothing more than her guard, seeing her safe. 

That’s what I tell myself, words scuttling around in the back of my skull as I wake her up and she looks at me like a sleepy bloody dormouse, as I give her breakfast, get her on Stranger. 

_I’m nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to y'all for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one, but with reason...

They rode, faster than the day before, on a path with open fields on one side and a dense, low wood on the other. Sansa had to clutch tight onto the front of the saddle, her good hand cramping. She made no disguise of her tiredness, laying her head right back against his chest, listening to his heart thump. He stayed silent. 

Halfway through the morning, three plump pheasants flapped across their path and into the trees. 

Sandor halted Stranger and slid off from behind her. ‘I’ll have one of them.’ He grabbed his bow and his two arrows and then looked up at Sansa and over at the horizon, suddenly uncertain. 

‘I’ll be alright,’ she said. 

He looked at her, his forehead knotted. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t. Should never have left you alone that last time.’ 

She patted Stranger on the neck and took up his reins. ‘I’ve got Stranger. And my dagger. And a cabbage.’ 

He grinned at her, shaking his head. ‘I’ll not be long.’ He stalked off down the path and veered into the wood, ducking under a branch.

***

I sit waiting. Part of me is glad to get away, cool my blood down. 

My head’s so full of her, and full of the voice of every person I’ve ever known telling me why it shouldn’t be. Two birds trot out, they’re a bit close, but I loose an arrow and get one, just. No screeching, just that loud flap of wings as she careers about, looking for ways out. No way out except into these hands – I grab her and she bloody jabs me, more than once, little daggerstabs right near my eye. Fucking thing. Really bloody hurts, but I snap her neck and it’s done.

***

The path was quiet, and calm. For once, she didn’t feel worried. She tilted her face up to the mild sun as Stranger gently thudded his hooves and shifted her about. After a few minutes, she heard a shout, and some cracking branches in the wood. Oh gods. She tightened Stranger’s reins nervously, and looked about her, scanning the trees. The stallion flicked his mane, aggressively. 

Sandor crashed out of the bushes, holding a female pheasant by the neck, its wings hanging loosely outwards, with an arrow in its breast. He held his bow in the other hand, looked about for Sansa, and strode towards her.

Blood was dripping from his unburnt cheek. 

‘You’re hurt!’ She tried to still Stranger, who was stamping his feet restlessly. 

Sandor threw his bow and the bird down onto the grass and held the horse’s reins to calm him. He put his arms round Sansa’s waist and hoisted her down. She looked up at his face, worried. 

‘The poacher’s life obviously isn’t for me.’ He smiled dryly down at her, though he seemed touched at her concern. ‘You’d think the arrow would have killed her. Fucking thing almost pecked my eyes out before I snapped her neck.’ He sat down on the grass heavily, cross-legged. 

Sansa rifled in his saddlebag for a waterskin and knelt down in front of him, beginning to unwrap a thin surface bandage from her wrist. 

He saw what she was doing. ‘Don’t do that.’ 

She ignored him and pulled it free. ‘Let me see.’ 

‘It’s alright, Sansa, save your nursing,’ he said, turning his face slightly away from her. Blood trickled from several small deep cuts at his cheekbone and onto his legs. 

‘But it _is_ bleeding. Quite _badly_.’ 

He touched his cheek and eyed the blood on his finger. ‘Ay. Go on, then.’ He wiped his hand on the grass next to him.

Sansa tucked the rag between her knees and tipped the waterskin onto it with her good hand. She held it to his cheekbone to staunch the bloodflow, suddenly aware of how close she was to him, her skin beginning to prickle. The white linen slowly reddened, ink spreading on parchment. 

‘Wine might be better,’ he said, looking at her from under his hooded eyelids. 

She quickly went and fetched it, and wet her bandage. Wine and blood mixed. She held it to his cheekbone again, glancing up to find him looking quietly back at her, and dropped her eyes swiftly to his cuts. 

‘Stabbed with a goldcloak’s sword, a crazed she-wolf’s dagger, and now a pheasant’s beak. Things are going downhill fast.’ 

Sansa stifled a quick giggle. He gave her a slow, wry smile and she swallowed, her grin fading self-consciously. Her heart was pounding. She lifted the rag cautiously to check underneath it. The blood flow was ebbing now - a drop seeped slowly along a small, diagonal line towards his temple. 

‘It’d better not scar.’ His voice was dark. 

‘I’m sure it won’t.’ She mopped the drop gently. 

‘Ay, 'cause that’d be fucking perfect, wouldn’t it? The _other_ side of my face starting to get battered.’ 

She took in a breath, suddenly knowing what to do, and kept her voice as serene as she could. ‘It’s really not that bad.’ 

‘Good.’ He was mock-solemn. ‘I’ll be rampaging through all the woods in Westeros seeking my vengeance if it does.’ 

Sansa gave the tiniest bite to her bottom lip and shook her head. ‘Not this,’ she said, dabbing at his cut a final time and carefully putting the blood and wine-soaked linen down on the ground. She looked up at his slightly puzzled brown-grey eyes squarely, a tingling sensation in her throat. ‘This.’ 

She put her good hand up to the cheek on the burnt side of his face and held it there. 

Sandor’s big frame suddenly froze. 

‘ _This_ isn’t that bad,’ she said.

Sansa lightly drew her forefinger along a raised ridge of red skin downwards from his outer cheekbone, at the corner of his barely-there ear and along his jawline, a lock of hair being pulled with it. She continued to the point where the hair of his eyebrow disappeared, moving towards his temple. 

Neither of them seemed to be breathing. He was looking at her as if caught somewhere between terror and being ready to pounce. 

‘Can you not feel that?’ she said, her voice very quiet and still. 

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes fixed on her face. 

It was as if a stone was lodged in her stomach. She moved her hand to the other side of his face, stroking the back of her hand on the soft part of his cheek above his beard, not quite believing that she dared. ‘How about this?’ 

Sandor breathed in slowly, his lips parting slightly. ‘Sansa.’ His voice was distant, low, and like a warning. 

‘Don’t,’ she said, her fingers still on his face. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’ She tried to look resolute. ‘Just – don’t.’

She took a sudden breath in and lifted herself up onto her knees so that her face was level with his. Leaning forward, her good hand on his knee, she kissed him, briefly and a little awkwardly, her eyes shutting for an instant. Rough lips and the bristles of his beard. 

She sat back slightly, lifting her eyes up to his, desperate for a sign that he’d not hated it. 

Sandor’s eyes were unreadable. They seemed to stare so intensely at her that they went through her. ‘Sansa.’ He shook his head just once and caught her hand. ‘You shouldn’t – we shouldn’t – should not be – doing that.’ 

‘Don’t you want to?’ She let the tiniest shred of hope colour her question. 

His shoulders heaved in a big breath. ‘Gods.’ He seemed to be struggling to say more. ‘You don’t want to be –‘ he swallowed. ‘Kissing an ugly torched old dog like me.’ 

‘Don’t say that,’ she said, emphatically shaking her head. ‘I think you’re - handsome.’ 

He laughed suddenly, a near-bark that sent two crows crashing out of the tree behind them, and let go of her hand. ‘Now I _know_ you’re crazy. You’ve been in the woods too long. The children of the forest have started whispering to you.’ 

‘Stop it,’ she said, half-smiling, but slightly hurt. ‘Don’t mock me.’ 

He sighed, his smile disappearing abashedly. He looked at her mouth, and at her, and at her mouth again, and then leant back gingerly, as if backing away from a dangerous animal. 

‘We should –‘ he stopped, as if considering what he was about to say, and then making up his mind. ‘We should go.’

***

Gods in all the – 

It’s like we’re back at that first river. Except this time Sansa has no fear of me dripping with blood, and she could cup me in her bloody hand. Her face is so close, and she’s looking like she’s done this a thousand times, all assured, and I think – what the hells is happening? 

And suddenly her hand is on my burns, like she’s found a cave of First Men paintings. She moves it to the other side and I’m growing hard and hoping to Gods she hasn’t noticed. Fingers soft as duckdown. 

My heart’s slamming and I try to tell her no and she kisses me, like she’s bumped into a wall, didn’t quite stop in time. She says _don’t you want to_? and I want to shake her by the shoulders and say I want to fucking have you right here, you beautiful green fucking girl and instead I bat her away, gentle as I can.

Seven sweet fucking hells. 

***

The ride was not as awkward as it could have been. Sansa couldn’t help being enclosed in his arms upon Stranger, and it still felt comfortable, even if they didn’t talk. 

Her mind was racing wildly. It probably hadn’t been the best kiss in the Seven Kingdoms. Too panicked. But she didn’t think she’d done the wrong thing. She’d wanted to, and she knew he did too. All those looks he’d been giving her. In the river, her legs, even when she came down in her ill-fitting dress at the smallholding. He was just being – proper, knowing it would be frowned upon. She was sure of it.

***

She’s got me in chains. On a fucking rack. 

We’re riding again, she’s putting her head on my chest like nothing’s fucking happened, or like _everything_ ’s fucking happened and she’s just as calm as anything about it. She fucking – truth is, it was so bloody quick I didn’t get much of anything, didn’t taste her, but what happened – happened. This wasn’t meant to – it was just supposed to stay in my head. Wasn’t it? _Hells_. I feel like a rat in cage, trying to brain myself to death before I get thrown to the dogs.

She called me – gods – said I was – only time a woman’s called me that is when they want something, and it’s in a voice like they’re in a mummer's farce and they want coin tucked into their skirts. I don’t know what’s fucking happened. The ground’s rocking.

***

They ate the pheasant that night, with Sandor again doing most of the work, though he did let her pluck the bird. She could do that well enough with one hand, the pheasant a dead weight on her lap. She tucked a long brown and white feather behind her ear. 

He’d been eyeing her sidelong all day, thoughtfully, then masking it with attempts at his old brusqueness. He had held his hands around her waist for a moment longer than necessary as he helped her down from Stranger and looked down at her, full of indecision. It made her bolder than ever to see him so tongue-tied.

Sansa was playing with the pheasant feathers, splaying them out, gathering them up, and placing them in order of height, or colour. She occasionally glanced up from behind her hair at him, sitting over the other side of the fire, his legs crossed out in front of him, and imagined kissing him again, and doing it better. 

He was picking at his teeth with the tip of a feather and caught her eye. She looked down at her feathers, hiding a smile. 

‘Sansa, if you keep looking at me like that, you’re going to be in trouble.’ His voice was casual. 

‘That’s the idea,’ she said, not looking up and hoping she sounded nonchalant. She lay the feathers tip to tip in a circle on the ground. 

He took an audible breath in and scratched his head. She thought she heard him whisper something to himself under his breath, though it might have been the fire hissing. 

***

It’s night, and I’m keeping well away from her. She gives me looks under those long bloody eyelashes with every feather she plucks off that damned bird. Like she’s taught herself a trick better than shooting rabbits or skinning hares. 

I break. I test her, sort of, tell her she’ll be in trouble soon enough. She comes right back at me, cool as anything. 

And I say, under my breath, _oh to the sweet fucking Gods_. And tell her to come over.


	11. Chapter 11

‘Come here, then,’ said Sandor.

Sansa felt a knot twist in her stomach. She placed the feathers carefully in a pile, stood up, and walked over to him, thinking of the time he’d made her hand over the dagger. She stood next to his arm, her shoulders tense.

Sandor tilted his head up at her, taking the feather out of his teeth and slowly putting it on the ground. ‘Sit down.’ 

She went to sit next to him but he took up her good hand and pulled her towards him. He gently clasped her ankle and lifted it so that she was standing over his legs, and tugged at the back of her knee until she slowly sat down, straddling him. His hands were between her thighs and her calves, folded in the outer parts of her skirts. He lifted his thumbs and stroked them down towards his other fingers, gazing at her intently. 

Sansa didn’t know where to put her good hand, and was too nervous to look at him. She had no idea what to do, or say. All her boldness lost. Sandor put his hands at her back, around her ribcage, and drew her towards him. As she put her hand out onto the studded leather mail of his chest to balance, he caught her face in a kiss.

It lasted a long moment. His lips were dry and warm. It didn’t feel quite real. Sandor pulled back, just a little, his upper lip still practically touching hers. She breathed two shallow, stuttering breaths into his mouth before he gathered her bottom lip back up in his, very slowly and gently, and kissed her again. She could feel the taut, rough part at the corner of his mouth, where it stretched into burn scars. He brought his head back a little, pulling her lip outwards in the slightest tug before letting it go. Sansa realised that her eyes were closed, and slowly opened them, her heart thudding. 

He was looking with sly keenness at her. ‘Was that what you wanted?’ Low, quietly spoken.

She gave a little nod. 

He took in a long, jagged breath and put his hand up to her forehead, drawing his forefinger and thumb down a long lock of hair. Sansa, her mind slightly hazy, dared herself to bring her hand up and traced the line between the ridge of his nose and the scarred corner of his mouth with her middle finger, before moving it along his bottom lip, and running her forefinger over his top lip in the other direction. It seemed to spark something in Sandor, then. He gripped behind her neck and kissed her again, a little more hungrily, his hand flattening her hair there, and touching the raised bones at the top of her spine. 

She could taste his beard, and pheasant meat, and a sweetness of something else too. She kissed him back, her hand on his shoulder, happy at how easy they were. Her first proper kisses.

Sandor sat back with a sigh suddenly, holding her with both hands around the bottom of her waist, shifting her away from him slightly. ‘Your brother will have my head on a spike for this.’ 

‘No, he won’t.’ She frowned. ‘Robb’s kind, and just.’ 

‘What, the Young Wolf?’ He sounded slightly scoffing, his old self. ‘Didn’t sound too much like it from the reports at the Red Keep.' 

‘He’s not like Joffrey. I know you think all lords are the same, but they’re not. You know as well as I do that Joffrey’s – he’s a monster. He’s – deranged. Robb wouldn’t do anything like that. I’m his sister.’ She looked at him thoughtfully and said in a rush, ‘and anyway, why does he need to know?’ 

Sandor arched his eyebrows high. ‘Oh that’s it, is it? You’re just using me for practice, are you?’ 

Sansa sat up straight. ‘No! I – I don’t know.’ She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. 

He looked amused at her uncertainty and put his hands out behind him on the ground, his thighs raising her slightly higher. ‘Ah, it’s fine. You can use me for target practice if it pleases you.’ He paused for effect, straight-faced. ‘As long as your aim is better than when you had a go at those rabbits.’ 

Sansa shoved him hard on the chest and he toppled backwards, though he probably hadn’t needed to. She stood up over him and put her boot on his chest, just below his neck armour, putting her good hand on her hip and pretending to be fierce. Sandor was grinning like a fool at his own quip and took her by the ankle, just underneath her skirts, his fingers gripping her just above her boot. She wobbled, and almost fell with a yelp. He released her and squinted up at her leisurely. 

She stepped off him, and stood next by his legs. ‘I have to – I’ll be back.’

He knew what she meant. ‘Don’t go far.’ 

‘I won’t,’ she said, walking towards the trees.

***

Gods.

I bring her down onto my knees and pull her in, gentle as I can bear, and kiss her properly. 

She’s sweeter than any apple. She’s - _there_ , and wanting it and putting her fingers on my mouth and I’m as hard as a bloody anvil but she’s just far enough away not to notice. And I’m kissing her again, my hands in her flaming hair, thinking, let’s just end the world now and that’ll be fine.

That’ll be fine because there’s no way in hells I can let this go any further. Fucking madness as it is. Half of me’s almost angry with her, letting her guard down like that. And the other half of me – the other half of me needs to calm the fuck down and stop feeling like a bloody sieve-headed idiot. This is not how it’s meant to be. However much you’ve thought of it.

She’s off now in the woods. Not quite enough time to sort this bugger out. I put my hand down there, rub a bit half-heartedly. Down, boy, because that’s all you’re bloody getting.

I feel like my mouth’s on fire.

***

Gods. 

She crouched down, watching the steam rise off the ground as she relieved herself, unable to stop herself grinning like an idiot. Her mouth was tingling. Her chest burning. She had kissed him. He had let her – more than that. He _had_ wanted to. It was the loveliest feeling she’d ever had.

When she returned, Sandor was adding a few more sticks to the fire. He had dumped their two blankets next to each other and taken off his armour. She sat down and gathered one of them around her with her good hand. He came over to her and squatted down in front of her, shrugging the blanket over her shoulders and under her chin, pulling her towards him slightly as if for another kiss. But he changed his mind and let the blanket go, sitting down beside her and drawing his own blanket over his legs. She lowered herself down with her elbows and lay on her side with her head at his hip, looking up at him, her eyes wide. 

He looked down at her unblinkingly and broke his gaze with a sigh. ‘You’re a menace. What are you doing to me? You’ve been guarding some sly she-wolf tricks up your sleeves.’ 

She didn’t move a muscle. ‘I know that you wanted this all along.’ 

He folded his arms and looked at her guardedly. ‘Oh, you do, do you?’ 

‘Shae said you did.’ He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘It’s not just that, I know y– I _know_ you did. Back at the castle. It’s why you looked out for me.’ He didn’t say anything. ‘Is that not true?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ He gave a little shake of his head. ‘Didn’t dream of it actually happening, that’s for sure.’ 

Sansa wondered about his past experiences. He’d never been married, but surely he’d been with other women, of what sort she didn’t quite like to think about. ‘How many ladies have you - kissed?’ 

Sandor took a sharp breath in, as if to retort quickly, before thinking better of it. ‘None of your business.’ 

She was silent, dreading that she had annoyed him. 

He suddenly took up her good hand and pushed it over her body, manoeuvring her so that she rolled onto her back. ‘You’re definitely the prettiest, though.’ 

Gently pinning her hand down by her ear, he half-leant over her, his hair hanging down over his face. He plucked out the pheasant feather that was still tucked in her hair and touched the skin behind her ear with the soft furl of it. The feather traced a line under her jaw towards her chin and over her upper lip. It tickled and Sansa pressed her lips together with a scrunching smile. 

Sandor put down the feather but continued touching her with a single finger, almost as light as the feather had been, from her neck under the middle of her jaw down to her collarbone. There was a rush of sudden, tingling warmth between her thighs. She could hardly breathe. He placed his forefinger in the little well at the base of her neck. As she swallowed, she felt her throat rise up against his finger.

Still holding her hand down against the ground, he cupped her cheek with his other hand, his thumb rubbing her cheekbone, and leant down and kissed her. She tilted her chin up a little into it. It was slow, tender. His lips were warm, and rough on the outside, but she could feel their softness further in. 

His hand moved towards the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her earlobe, before moving his head back and looking at her. ‘The prettiest in a while, anyway.’ 

Sansa widened her eyes in not entirely feigned indignation. 

He breathed a laugh into her face. ‘Definitely the prettiest.’ 

‘You’re so mean.’ She pretended to scowl at him.

‘I know.’ His voice was long and low, as if comforting a child. 

She smiled and gazed at him seriously again. ‘My hand’s hurting.’

Sandor looked alarmed and sat back, shoving a hand through his hair, before lying down on his side. As Sansa turned over towards him, leaving her blanket on the ground underneath her, he put his nearest arm out. She lifted her head and rested it tentatively back down on his shoulder. He brought up his blanket, which had become tangled around his feet, over them both, and tugged her gently in towards him, his hand on her ribcage. 

He put his nose to her hair. ‘You even smell like fire.’ 

***

Hells, this is madness. I’m looking into the maw of a bottomless well. I get our blankets while she’s still off taking a piss and tell myself again, _don’t do anything, for gods’ sakes_. She’s got her head way up in the damn clouds, doesn’t seem to know how dangerous this is – for _me_ , if not her. Innocent as a bloody lamb. She comes and lays down next to me, staring at me like I’m a bloody prince or something. She digs, too – tells me I wanted this all along. 

I’ve nowhere to hide. It’s like she’s slicing me open, carefully, not much blood, just a deadly thin cut, all the way along. She says _how many ladies have you kissed_ and I think, _fuck_ , Sansa, how many women do you think have willingly put their face on this? I’ve never had a woman’s mouth on me without having half-fucked them first. Kissing - even the bloody _word_ sounds like something for young maids alone, not a stupid sorry dog like me - is something I’m about as practised at as embroidery, as cake-making. Thank the gods she’s even more green than I. 

But I can’t help myself, she’s right _there_ , and I’m – kissing - her again, and teasing her, and kissing her, pulling that damned feather from behind her ear and using it on her, putting my fingers on her neck and it’s the best feeling I’ve ever had. She’s lying there like she’d just let me fucking have her and it’s all I can do to rein myself in, remind myself she’s quivering like a fletchling because she’s _never done this before_.

Fucking Others take me now, I’ll go quietly. She’s lying there with her head on my shoulder. Well, she’ll not get a fever at least I think. Ay, ‘cause that’s all you are, you fucking fool, a bloody great fur blanket.

***

When Sansa woke up, they were still lying in the same position. It was the heart of night. She raised her cheek from his shoulder and brought her hand up to feel the grooves and ridges made by being crushed against his mail shirt. Like she had a cheek to match his, she thought, lowering it again. He smelt of earth, dry mud and nettles. He was breathing so deeply, as if the sea was rising up from the pit of his stomach and subsiding just before reaching his throat. She thought of her heart, beating solidly, enclosed by her ribs, like a conch in its ridged shell. And of herself as a conch too, encased in his arms. 

And she imagined what they looked like from higher up, a raven’s view, above the boughs of the trees - the pair of them, curled up together, encased by the whole dark wood. She was the raven hanging above them, flying higher and higher, until they disappeared out of sight beneath the trees, which tilted away from the surrounding fields and rubbled stone walls, and then hills and the Vale of Arryn, and so high up that the white peaks beyond the Wall could be seen, and the glint of the sea. She found herself wishing that they could always lie here like this, still and quiet, and hidden from everyone.


	12. Chapter 12

A raven squawked and Sansa woke up again, to daylight. Her mouth was dry. Her back was to him and he had scooped her by the lowest part of her waist into his lap, his hand at the bend of her hips, his face against her hair. She shifted slightly to test if he was awake. He didn’t move, his breath warming the nape of her neck. She tried to sense all the places where their bodies touched through the folds of their clothes. Every nerve felt heightened. It made her throat ache. What it would be like if they were naked and lying here like this? The thought made a flush flood through her, her thighs clench.

She had made Shae tell her how a man and a woman might lie together. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t understood the basics – Theon had whispered it all slyly in her ear one day when she was younger, hoping to frighten her – but she had known that there was more to it than that. Shae had refused to talk to her, but after Sansa’s moonblood had come, she had relented and been frank and demonstrative enough to make Sansa blush from ear to ear. At the time, of course, they’d been assuming that Joffrey would be bedding her. 

‘The right man knows how to satisfy a woman, not just fuck her for his own pleasure,’ Shae had said, looking like she didn’t believe for a second that Joffrey would be one of those men.

Sansa scratched her nose and Sandor stirred, emitting a low, muffled grumble. He unselfconsciously pulled her hip further in towards him and she felt him harden through her skirts at the base of her back. She tried not to move, thinking she might burst into a giggle. He sniffed, his breaths coming irregularly, and suddenly moved his hips away from hers. 

She lay still a moment longer before turning around to face him. His eyes were gummy and wrinkled at the corners, and he looked at her slightly guiltily. 

‘Hello,’ she said, her voice small.

***

There were wolves in my dreams. Wolves and winter and boats and a man as tall as the wall of a keep, leaning over me, green blood dripping out of his mouth, me flailing, not able to run.

And when I wake, I’ve brought her arse right into my lap, and my cock is laid halfway up her back. Fuck. 

She’s bloody awake and all, wriggles round, grinning. Gods, those eyes – like you’re on top of the Eyrie with the bright winter sky slapping you round the face. 

***

‘Hello yourself.’ He sounded scratchy and faraway. 

She tipped her chin up towards him and kissed him, quite shyly. He tasted slightly musty, like stale bread. Sandor made a little sighing, sleepy groan behind closed lips and put his hand in her hair. 

She smiled at him, feeling sheepish. ‘I’m sorry, I think my mouth might taste horrid.’ 

‘No…’ He drew out the word in a long, lazy drawl, moving his hand to the back of her head and kissing her once, and again, breathing into her. ‘You taste of summertime –‘ he said offhandedly in between kisses. ‘And, I don’t know – peaches and – wine.’ He stopped, and looked vaguely into the middle distance above her. ‘And maybe just a bit of dead rabbit.’ 

Sansa punched him in the jaw. 

He rubbed his face, laughing. ‘You don’t know your own strength.’ 

She gave him her most ferocious look. ‘Better be nicer, then.’

He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her body up towards him. Leaning awkwardly on the elbow of her wounded arm, Sansa buried her face in his neck, feeling the taut ridges of his scars against her cheekbone. She kissed him there and lower on his neck where the skin was soft again, below his beard. She felt like she could burrow into him, a small, scurrying mammal looking for warmth.

Sandor smoothed his palms over her back as she brought up a hand to his mailshirt, daring herself to tug it down ever so slightly, revealing paler skin below the brown neckline. She could do anything. It was safe. She put her lips there, moving her leg up between his thighs as she did so, wanting to taste his skin again. Slightly alarmingly, she could feel him hard in his trousers against her knee. 

He suddenly twisted his waist away from her. ‘Sansa. You don’t know what you’re doing.’ 

That hurt. She brought her face up to his. ‘I know I don’t. But – you could show me.’ 

Sandor looked faintly panicked. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He took a breath in. ‘You’re not thinking.’ 

‘I don’t want to think.’

‘Then you’re being green.’

Sansa lowered herself off his chest and rolled back down to the ground onto her back. She turned her face towards him, knowing the heat was blossoming on her cheeks. ‘Don’t you want to?’ 

Sandor opened his mouth, and clamped it shut again. ‘Seven hells. You’re not making this easy for me.’ 

‘I don’t want to be – attacked – and it be my first time,’ she said in a rush, looking up at him, and down again. ‘I want to - try it with you.’ 

He answered her quickly. ‘That’s not how it’s going to be. You’re supposed to be wedded to some highborn lord with a big castle keep and legions of bannermen shouting his name, and when you are bedded, they sure as the gods will expect you to be a maiden.’ 

He sounded like a septon. ‘I don’t _care_. I don’t want to be married to a lord. I did that already, remember? He killed my father, my sister’s missing, and my brother’s started a war against him. I’m not doing that again.’ 

‘Ay, but you will, whether you like it much or not. Your family are no different from any other, as much as you think otherwise. They’ll marry you off to win fresh allies just about as soon as you’re back home and have had a hot bath.’ 

‘You said I should fight against that.’ There was a tightness in her chest. Sandor sighed. ‘You _did_ ,’ she said.

He spoke more earnestly. ‘Sansa, you need to be realistic. We do what we have to, to survive. You’ll do it, because you have to. And you’ll bloody well need to be a maid.’

Sansa stared up at the sky. The tree boughs were rigid, wagging fingers. 

‘You’ll probably be lucky,’ he said, trying to appease her. ‘He’ll be - nice. And young. And less burned.’ 

‘I don’t care about that,’ she said, still looking upwards. 

Sandor didn’t reply, but she knew that he believed her. Her stomach felt tangled. She was embarrassed, frustrated. He wanted to bed her, it was as plain as day. She felt like a child and a – a whore, all at once. 

‘You know I’m not going to let anything happen to you,’ he said, more gently. ‘I’ll kill anyone who as much as looks at you. And I’ll get you home, and safe, and you’ll forget all about this.’ 

She should have been glad to hear it, but her heart sank. 

***

She’s kissing me again, getting used to it, and she’s so damned warm and I’m thinking Gods, to have your thighs around my ears right now, then you’d give me your bloody wide eyes. She’s getting bolder, and I’m pulling her onto me, and her knee’s up against my cock and I wrench myself away, talk her down. Talk myself down. Tell her she’s got lords waiting for her. That she needs to be a maid. Listen to your own words, man. 

This can’t happen.

***

They packed up. Sansa dragged her feet sulkily and shoved her things together, knowing that he was pretending not to notice. 

After an hour’s riding in silence, she looked round. ‘Please can we find an inn tonight? Proper food and a bath? We must be far enough north now.’ 

He looked down at her, considering it. ‘Ay, alright, you win, if we’re near enough. We’ll just have to make sure our story’s straight. And hope to the Gods no one recognises us.’

Sansa took one more bite of the apple she was holding moodily and passed it back to Sandor. He held the reins in one hand across her lap in order to take it and kept it there as he crunched, loudly, in her ear. She felt like a fool. And as hopeless as a late summer flower - even as his armour dug into her slightly - with his arm tight against her waist like that. She wanted it to be with him. She did. She felt safer with him than with anyone.

She squeezed her eyes shut, looking forward to a change of scene – an inn, and a bed again, and stew, not dry meat and raw vegetables. She knew it was risky, with the chance that someone might recognise one of them, but there were many inns in Westeros and many people to fill them who would never have even heard of the Hound, or Sansa Stark, let alone know their faces. 

Perhaps Sandor would act differently with her if they had their own room. Or maybe he’d be worse, she thought huffily, and take a separate room, like a man of the damned Night’s Watch, and lie there thinking of her in the next one. 

She sighed loudly. He exhaled the slightest gentle laugh at her, throwing the apple core into the grass.

***

She sulks. Sulks getting up. Sulks when I consent to an inn. Sulks on the horse. Fat bottom lip and little knot on her forehead, not knowing that it’s cuter than anything else she’s pulled. It just makes me grin, feeling her silence, heavy as an anchor. Fact is, she’s sulking ‘cause I’m telling her she can’t have more of me. Talk about my head bloating up like a pumpkin. 

_I want to try it with you_. How can she - want me? Rainwater's soaked into her brain. She doesn't know what the hells she's saying. Looking at me like I'm all the fucking knights from her fucking songs rolled into one, not - this. This ragged, torn old dog with nothing to his name but a scarred face and a bloody big horse. For Gods' sake, does she even have half a mind to what goes on, really? I've no bloody idea what highborn ladies know about - does she think she'll be rolling around on fucking rose petals whilst some bastard minstrel plays a harp in a corner?

I start thinking about it, as we ride, as she bites into that apple as perfectly as everything else she bloody does, think of tugging away that cloak, putting my fingers between the material of her dress and her skin, that shoulder blade, which is maybe cool to the touch like a sea-pearl, or flaming hot, and either way the dress wouldn't last long seeing as - 

She turns round and I pretend not to be thinking about anything at all.

An inn, then. I don’t want to think about what happens tonight, if we come to one, asking for rooms. One is safer, for keeping the outside world out. Two is safer, for me. And for her. Gods.

***

Later in the day, there was a sound ahead that made Sansa’s heart plunge. Sandor pulled on Stranger’s reins to listen. It sounded like thousands of distant, furiously galloping hooves, many leagues away. 

‘What is that?’ she said. 

He didn’t answer, still straining to hear. Maybe they had stumbled into the middle of the war. Then she thought that she heard a shred of a laugh from him as he spurred Stranger on. 

She held onto the saddle, hoping that he wasn’t leading them gleefully into a melée of spears and axes and bloodletting. They galloped down a slope, with a steep bank of tall, dark trees stretching far below them, and the sound became louder, bleeding into something more like the hiss of innumerable serpents. The path finally levelled and he slowed them down. They came into a clearing, facing a large pool and a waterfall as high as one of the walls at Winterfell. 

‘You said you wanted a bath,’ he said.

‘That is not a hot bath.’ Sansa gazed at it. 

It was beautiful, though, and deafening. Sandor eased himself off Stranger and helped her down. She walked up to the edge of the pool, her boots smudging the dark, dense mud. The fall of the water was mesmerising. A snowfall, or a blur of doves’ wings. Swirls of fine mist puffed into the air in front of it, catching in the light of the slim sunrays that filtered down through the trees. 

‘Might not be so cold.’ There was a hint of a challenge in his voice as he joined her at the edge. 

She looked down at the water, a glinting black-blue, like the dragonglass blade that Maester Luwin had once shown her and Ayra. 

‘It’ll get you clean, that’s for sure.’ He was grinning. 

Then I’ll show him, she thought. She fingered for the edge of the linen that bound her hand to her chest, and pulled it, carefully unwrapping the long strip from her back and shoulder, so that her arm was free, though her wrist still bandaged. It throbbed. 

‘Help me, then.’ She turned her back to him. He didn’t move, startled. She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I’m not going in there in my dress.’ 

He looked caught in indecision for a moment and shook his head slightly. ‘It doesn’t matter, I’m just teasing you.’ 

‘No,’ she said, in charge now. ‘You’re right. I’m filthy. I just need help.’ 

He took a step towards her, took up the woollen strings at her shoulder blades and tugged at one of them, and then slowly unlaced it. 

Sansa stared out at the pool, feeling quite calm, his knuckles against her back. She felt the top of her dress around her ribcage loosen and took one shoulder of it, pulling it down under her bandaged arm to her waist. She felt round to the bottom of the bodice, made sure it was loose enough and as gracefully as she could stepped out of the dress, standing in her boots and her smock. She shoved it unceremoniously at Sandor, not making eye contact. Finally, she sat down on a tree root and picked at the laces of her boots, kicking them away, pulling her stockings off and removing her dagger strap. 

She walked back to the side of the pool, where it was at its most shallow. Sandor was holding her dress and watching her, slightly agog. She didn’t look at him. Part of her white smock was reflected in the water, a ghost under the surface. Taking a quick, deep breath in, she put her good hand behind her to the neck of her smock and pulled it up over her, the material brushing up over her thighs, and hips, and waist, and breasts. It floated off from the back of her head. 

Sansa dropped it and stepped forward, naked, into the water.

***

A bloody great waterfall, foaming like an old drunk, loud as anything. Sansa’s looking at it like it’s a jewel swinging in front of her face. I gibe her and before I know it, she’s risen to it and I’m helping her with her dress and the panic’s rising in my throat. Gods. Don’t think I’ve undressed a woman before. Skirts up around their arse is usually enough for me. 

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. How is she suddenly in charge? She’s not saying anything, just steps out of her dress and takes her boots and stockings off, furiously, like they’re itching. She walks up to the pool, toes right up to the water, like she’s forgotten all about me, in her white smock - I can see her shape under it. All of her. 

Everything’s gone dead quiet, watching. She’s got her back to me, straight as a sapling, holding her arms stiff by her side, fingers just a bit apart. And I’m about to say, Sansa, I was just joking, you don’t have to go in, when she pulls her smock off. 

My guts drop to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for reading! Lemme know what you think...


	13. Chapter 13

The mud squelched between Sansa’s toes, and jagged little stones dug into her soles. It was very cold, but she wasn’t going to turn back. She didn’t dare look round. The ground shelved very gradually, the clear, weedless water coming up to her knees, her thighs, making her stifle a gasp. It was like being back at Winterfell, in the middle of the summer. The pools there were always in shade and never warmed. She would hurl herself in, not wearing a thread, when she was a little girl, before she cared about ruining her hair or getting muddy. 

The water reached her hips, enclosed her at the waist, so cold it almost bit. Sansa stood there for a moment, looking up at the waterfall, feeling the spray glitter her face, her back facing the bank. She trailed her hands in the water, sank forward, and submerged. 

It made her chest burn and she swam quickly, in shallow movements, her good hand doing most of the work. She floated right up to the falls, took a deep breath and ducked under, kicking her legs, swimming right through the pounding water. 

***

She’s the palest thing I’ve ever seen. 

She’s limestone, thousands of years old, shaped by water into – _this_. She doesn’t turn around, walks in, as if there are no stones, or mud, as if it’s a hot bath. She goes straight into that water, knees, hips, water closing over her arse – she’s a fucking _vase_ – ribs, and she hasn’t made a sound. And – fuck – she’s leant in, gone in properly, and swims. She swims, even with that damned half-snapped wrist, and I think that’ll fucking teach you dog, you fucking fool. She’s fearless. Stubborn. A bloody Tully fish by the looks of it too. 

She ducks under the falls.

***

It was as if she had her head in a thundercloud. She hung there, treading water, the falls hurling down in front of her. Sandor was standing where she’d left him at the bank, a dark, still figure. She felt a little exhilarated, knowing she’d shocked him by going in like this. It served him right. The water churned like a great stewpot, foaming around her neck. 

Sansa wanted to stay there forever, hidden from everyone, a dappled, unspeaking child of the forest who could turn into water and tumble away. Who could live among rocks, nestle in moss, make only the sound of birdsong. But her breath started to judder and she shivered, suddenly and violently. Her wrist was beginning to ache, though the cold had seemed good for it. 

She would have to go back. 

Inhaling deeply, she swam under the falls again, through clouds of water like swirling, gauzy skirts, spitting water out as she surfaced.

***

I’m chained down with leadballs on the bank, holding her gown like I’m her bloody dressmaid. I look down at her smock, dumped on the ground. She’s shed her skin and it’s just her crazy wolfsoul bobbing around in there. 

Gods, I can’t even see her. She’s maybe knocked her head or gulped half the falls – _Fira, almost blue, veins like mountain rivers, staring_. I’m starting to vex, thinking I’m going to have to go in and drag her body out, when she’s there again, sealslick head, floating around like she couldn’t care less. 

Pale, pale skin in the dark water. An ice floe.

I don’t want her to come out. I want her to come out right now. 

***

Sansa was beginning to feel a little foolish, but loitered in the water for as long as she could bear, turning on her back, spinning in lazy circles using her good hand. Sandor was still just - standing there. It was no good. Her toes were utterly numb. Swimming over to the shallows, she kept her body under the water as long as she could, until the stones were grazing her knees. She swallowed hard and stood up, dripping, in front of him, her hair plastered to her shoulders, not daring to look up. She wanted to cover herself with her hands but walked slowly out, trying to look like she hadn’t a care in the world, and stepped onto the bank. 

She raised her eyes to him. 

His eyes were as dark as she’d ever seen them. ‘You might have drowned.’ His voice sounded muddy. 

‘I _can_ swim.’ 

He looked completely anguished and she knew that he wanted to touch her. 

‘Can I have my dress, please?’ she said as calmly as she could, hearing the words come out as taut as a fencewire. She held her hand out, loosening drops of pool-water. 

Sandor opened his mouth without taking a breath and shut it again. He looked at her shoulders, and her breasts, and swallowed, a dry click. It seemed to be the only sound for miles around – everything else had gone deathly still.

Sansa lowered her arm, having no idea what to say, or do, next. Every hair on her body was standing on end. 

He suddenly took her by the hand.

***

She’s – all of her, bone-naked, dripping. Fuck – those breasts, the curve of her, the little triangle of hair, golden. I’m hard – thank the Gods for her gown. She’s holding her chin up like she’s the queen of fucking Westeros, like she’s _clothed_. 

She stands there asking for her dress. I can’t. Can’t give it to her. Can’t move. Can’t stop wanting her more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire fucking life. Her hair’s the colour of a brown fox. Her skin’s - 

Fuck this. I take her to underneath the trees, pine needles scrunching, and she lets me, no questions. 

***

Sandor led her to a smooth patch of grass and spread her dress out on it. He wordlessly began to undo his armour, shifting awkwardly. Sansa didn’t dare look at him, not properly. He removed his sword-belts, lay them on the ground next to the armour and took a step closer, his expression opaque. 

He put a hand on her damp neck, moved it along her shoulder and down her upper arm, watching his fingers. Sansa felt like one of the statues in her family’s crypt, cold and clammy, the words frozen in stone. He clenched her arm muscle tightly, released it, and cupped the side of her breast. 

She emitted a tiny breath. 

His thumb touched her nipple and he smoothed his hand down her side, holding it at her hip. She kept her eyes on his but he didn’t look at her, his palm moving round to the very base of her spine, drawing her, just with his middle finger, a half-step towards him. He slid his hand down over her buttock and gripped her, his palm on her bottom, his fingers on her inner thigh, almost touching her right – _there_. It was as if he was holding her up an inch off the ground.

He looked at her then. ‘Do you want to?’ His voice was very low. 

Sansa felt like she was in a dream, like this wasn’t really happening to her anymore. Someone else was playing her part. She nodded. Sandor put his hand at her flank, the other on her other hip. She moved to his pressure, kneeling first, before folding her legs underneath her and slowly lying back on top of her rumpled dress, her knees bent. 

***

She’s – she’s like wax. Her arms, her shoulders, her flank. She’s covered in droplets and little bumps are raised all over her skin. And my fingers are on her and my hand and she’s shivering - and Gods, I want to – I have to - I ask her and she nods, eyes bigger than ever, big as harvest moons. 

Her broken wrist rests on the pine needles. She’s as still as anything. 

***

Sandor knelt by her feet, removing his mail shirt, unbuckling his breeches. Sansa looked up at the pinecones nestling amongst the oily green needles in the tree above her. He put a hand on her knee, shifting himself up between her legs. She parted them slightly, tipping her chin onto her chest to look. He was still wearing his white shirt. His hand moved down the inside of her leg and Sansa dropped her head back again as she felt the tip of his finger slide into her and move upwards. There was a twinge as it reached the top. She was aware that she was damp there, warm. 

He put his hand on her inner thigh and pushed it gently out and downwards towards the ground, moving up so that his hips were pressed right against her. Sansa couldn’t see what he was doing. It was best to just look upwards, at the splints of light through the trees. She felt him against her. It was shocking, alien. As if a smooth river-rock was being pressed there. 

He pushed himself slowly into her and there was a searing pain, a flash. She blinked hard. The pine trees looked brighter, like lightning had blazed in, before becoming dark again. It really hurt. She clenched her teeth tightly together as his hipbones touched hers and moved away slightly, before coming forward again. 

***

Fuck, she’s wet. For _me_. Wet enough. And I’m pulling her knees apart and moving up to her, and careful, careful, putting myself into her, sliding in. She – gods, it’s like she’s got me in her fist. I feel her break and try not to think about it too much, because I’m there, in her, in the whole damned pool of her. 

My knees in the mud. Hips at her thighs. 

***

Sandor leant down, his face in her neck, his breathing quiet and guttural. He was holding himself just slightly above her body, but she still felt stifled by his big frame. Sansa put a hand on his back as she was sure she was supposed to and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She had known that it would be painful. Everyone knew that. But she hadn’t realised how much. 

He was pressing even deeper into her, his hand on her buttock, his hipbone crushing into her inner thigh. Something sharp was digging into her back. 

She waited for it to be over. She wanted it to be over. 

He began to move a little more quickly, his shirt rubbing against her breasts, his breathing becoming ragged, like material being frayed. His hair was at her cheek. He suddenly pushed very deeply inside her, just once, and went rigid for a moment. 

There was a long, sudden outrush of breath and they were both still.

***

She’s fucking surrounding me, all of me, and I want to burrow as deep as I can into her, hide there, and she’s so small and perfect and there’s a sweet fucking rush and it’s done.

***

Sansa was burning. She didn’t breathe. Sandor lifted himself onto his elbows to look at her, his hair falling over his face, flushed. She tried to compose herself, to look glacial, serene, but she hurt. 

A tear spilled from her eye and trickled down her cheek. 

He saw it, and looked at her, suddenly stricken. His eyes clouded. ‘Fuck.’ 

He looked at her for a moment longer and manoeuvered himself out and off of her in a rush, bringing his breeches up over his hips. He stood between her legs, his mouth hanging open, gazing at her in dismay. 

And then he turned and walked away, slipping slightly on the grass.

***

Didn’t give her much time to enjoy herself, there. I come up onto my elbows. And I see her face. She’s trying to pretend. Trying to look calm. 

A fat tear, like a massive raindrop that’s swelled on a leaf, rolls down her cheek.

Fuck - I think I say that, and come out of her, sharpish. She’s – she’s frightened. No, not frightened. I – fuck. I hurt her. I yank my breeches up, stand. Fuck. 

I’m moving away, away from her, quickly, get out of her sight, before she cries, before you can scare the shit out of her any more. Keep moving. 

I hurt her. I fucking hurt her. I – she said she wanted to. I _asked_ her. I tried to be – no you didn’t. Not once you got going. Gods, I should be strung up. She just lay there, all quiet, and I thought – no. You forgot. You forgot about her. I’m stumbling into the pines, don’t know where the fuck I’m going, as long as it’s _away_ , so she can’t see me, so she can breathe. 

Darker, darker, crowding in.

***

The waterfall rushed and hissed, as it always had and always would. Sansa could feel the spray lightly drizzling on her skin. She lay there, unmoving, for a while. She felt hollowed out. It stung horribly. Propping herself up on her elbows, she put her fingers between her legs. There was blood, as she’d expected. And she had bled onto her dress, which was crushed underneath her. 

Sandor was nowhere to be seen. 

Sansa looked at the pool, and at the waterfall, and then around at the rough-trunked pines. Stranger was standing calmly a little way off. She stood up, whimpering slightly. Picking up the dress, she wiped herself with the inside hem, staining it further, before realising that the water would be better and stumbling over to it. She crouched down in the shallow part of the pool, tears coming properly now, and splashed herself. 

Naked and pale. Surrounded by gloomy pines and black water. If someone came across her now, they’d think she was a ghost, or a forest nymph. 

She plucked up her smock from the bank and pulled it over her head, her legs still wet, and went over to Stranger, untying her own bundle. The second dress that Elisota had given her was a heavy thing, dull purple. She got herself into it, still sobbing. It tied at the front and she laced it over her chest with her good hand. Her wrist was starting to ache and she collected the linen strips and bound it back around herself as best she could. And she sat down to wait. 

***

I thought she was alright. She – why didn’t she say something? Because you were on top of her, you fucking bastard. Of course it fucking hurt. You took her maidenhood, like you said you wouldn’t. I stick my hand down my breeches and it comes up dark red. Fuck. I’ve got pine needles stuck to my knees. Should’ve stopped as soon as I’d felt her – gods, what’s wrong with you? Should’ve not fucking done it at all. But she was standing there, so damned perfect and –

You weak fucking dog. I scrape my knuckles into the bark of the trees until they bleed.

***

He didn’t come back. Sansa had pulled Stranger’s reins and he’d reluctantly lain down. She had leant against his great, dark flank and tried to imagine what Sandor would say when he returned, or what she would to him. Where had he gone? 

She had no idea what he would be thinking right now, or why he’d suddenly disappeared. He’d seen the tear, she knew, but - he had to come back. It was getting colder. She fastened her dagger strap, put her stockings over her muddy feet and fastened her boots. 

After the sun had lowered a little more, the underside of the leaves losing their light, she didn’t think she could stand hearing the waterfall plunging unceasingly any longer. He wasn’t coming back. Not until she’d gone.

Sansa stood up in a rush, fresh tears coming fast. She collected her bundle together and filled one of the waterskins at the pool edge until it brimmed. She found some bread in the saddlebag, grabbed her cloak, and started up the path they’d descended so much earlier. Stranger had creaked himself up off the ground, and moved about, unsure and restless. 

The more steps she took upwards, the quicker she wanted to get away. She almost ran, trying to calm the stuttering in her chest. At the top of path, it broadened out into pale yellow fields, punctuated with copses. 

Sansa took a deep breath, and began to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yyyyup. Lemme know whatcha think...


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa stopped when she reached what looked like a crossroads, although a very rough one, the paths rubbled and uneven. Her boots were giving her blisters. She was sweaty, and hot and feverish through crying. Which way would they have gone, if he’d been with her? Three directions could lead home, or lead to terrible dangers. She couldn’t choose, and sat down to rest. 

Sansa picked her head up off of her knees when she heard a rickety rumble from the right hand road, past caring if they were a threat or not. It was a cart. She lay her head back down until it was closer and stood up to face it. A man in his thirties, sandy hair sticking out at all angles, eyed her with some wariness as he flicked his horse’s reins. She was a small, cream-coloured mare, or at least was underneath the layers of road-dust.

Sansa stood very still and straight as the cart drew level with her. ‘Good day.’ 

His eyes slid towards her and back to the road. ‘And to you.’ The cart began to pass her. 

He wasn’t stopping. She turned in a panic. ‘Are we near an inn?’ The cart kept moving. ‘Excuse me!’ She began to run after it. ‘Please –‘ He brought the horse up and tilted his head round to her. ‘Please. Are we near an inn? Or a village?’ 

He took in her tear-stained face and bandaged hand. ‘There’s one not a half day towards Cherrycombe.’ He frowned, but not unkindly. His eyes were as bright as the glaze on a pot and he had pronounced lines on his cheeks. ‘What are you doing out here on your own? Are you well?’ 

Sansa took a deep breath in. ‘My companion – died.’ 

‘ _Died_?’ He looked around at the distant fields. ‘Where are they, then?’ ‘

Her story wouldn’t have lasted long anyway. ‘Lost, died, it doesn’t matter. Can you take me there? To the inn?’ 

‘I’m heading some of that way, it’s true enough.’ He looked at her quizzically. ‘Not sure my mare can take another, though.’ 

Sansa fumbled in her bundle, pulling out the gold necklace that Joffrey had given her. ‘I can give you this. As my thanks.’ 

He squinted at it as it dangled from her hand and then back at her. ‘Who are you, then?’

‘No one.’

His squint became curious, then open. ‘You’ll have to sit on the back. I hope you like turnips.’ 

Sansa felt a wash of relief. ‘Thank you.’ 

She walked around to the back of the cart and levered herself up onto a pile of turnips. He coughed at her and she glanced round to find him looking nodding expectantly at her hand. She leant over and gave him the necklace. The cart began to trundle off over the path.

***

The sun’s sagging. Where the fuck am I? Don’t know how long I’ve been here. Move, man. 

Gods, I don’t want to face her, not ever. I think I came this way. She’ll never look at me like that again, like I’m warming her belly. Like it’s Sevenmas. All these fucking trees look the same. She’ll look at me like she did when she first saw me, like they all do. I’ve rats in my gut. 

Thank the Gods - I can hear the falls again.

She’s not here. Stranger’s shuffling. Her dress is right where we – where I - there’s blood, a little circle of it. Where is she? The smock’s gone, and her boots. 

I sit and wait, the falls hissing in my ears. I’m getting damp. What am I going to fucking say to her? Hang on. She can’t have gone traipsing into the forest in just her smock. If anyone – I check Stranger. 

Her bag’s gone. Fuck. Her bag’s gone. I track the mud, tasting a rising dread like bile. Bootprints, back up the slope. 

I’m on Stranger before he’s ready for me.

***

As the cart drew leagues and leagues away from the waterfall, the sun began to set, peach-coloured fronds fraying outwards into a wide, gauzy sky. The driver kept whistling, tunes she partly recognised, before they’d wind into something unfamiliar. Loose soil from the vegetables was rubbing off on Sansa’s dress, and the knobbled piles of turnips were so hard and painful that she was sure she’d wake up with bruises, but she almost revelled in her discomfort. She felt empty, a silent, dark pool. 

He had left her there. She couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on her cold, wet skin. Her shoulder, her arm, her hip. It was as if he’d left marks. His great weight, crushing her, though he had tried not to. And his breath, right in her ear. She’d hoped it would be alright, because it was him, but everything had gone wrong. 

He’d uttered just one word and the memory of it, which kept returning however much she blinked it away, was a little needleprick in her stomach.

It was murky by the time they reached the inn, which looked from a distance like a hearth glowing with dull embers. It stood alone at a corner of the road, a small stone building with a rudimentary stable and two other carts outside, swelling with the sound of laughter. 

The turnip cart rolled up to the door. ‘Here y’are, then.’ The driver shifted round to look at her. ‘Reckon I’ll need to stay here now, too, seeing as how late it is.’ 

Sansa hopped off the back of the cart, grabbing her bundle and cloak, and looked up at an askew sign of a haybale. She hesitated. 

The cart-owner had dismounted and stood behind her. ‘Go on, then. It’s not a whorehouse. Or at least it wasn’t last time I looked.’ 

She swallowed and went inside as the driver began to detach his horse from the cart.

The large main room had a hearty, black-smoking fire and wizened benches and tables scattered around. Three people were sitting at a foam-flecked table with their hands around flagons - two men, who looked hazy-eyed and dirty, and a woman, with a mane of greying hair and innumerable layers of brown woollen cloth over her plump frame. They were all laughing raucously. 

The woman looked up at Sansa, who was hovering nervously just inside the door. ‘Can I help you, lass?’ 

Sansa nodded, uncertain. The woman heaved herself up, collecting the flagons, and came over to her, rolling slightly on her hips. 

‘Do you have a room?’ said Sansa. ‘I can pay.’ 

The woman folded her arms over her bosom and looked her up and down, noticing her wrist bandage and taking in her hair. ‘Yes, well, you’d have to pay,’ she said, as if Sansa was an idiot. 

‘I just - need a room for the night.’ 

The woman narrowed her eyes at her, cool green flints in her puffy face. ‘Aren’t you a bit young to be out on your own?’ 

Sansa held her gaze squarely. ‘Does it matter?’ 

The woman sighed. ‘Not if you can pay.’ 

Sansa took out her jewels, cupping them. The silver, gossamer-thin chain, the small cinnabar brooch, and her direwolf charm.

The innkeeper nodded at the dark silver charm. ‘That yours, is it?’ 

Sansa tried to think quickly. ‘No. I – stole it.’ 

There was a pause. ‘None of my business where you got it, I suppose,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll have that one.’ 

Sansa opened her mouth to say that she wasn’t offering her a choice, but shut it again and gave the direwolf to her. 

‘I’ll take you up. That all you got?’ She jerked her head at Sansa’s bundle and cloak. 

Sansa nodded, feeling some panic at having given away her charm so easily. ‘I’d like a bath, if you have one.’ 

‘That can be done.’ The innkeeper began to lead her to an inner doorway by the far side of the fire. ‘And you’ll get a hot meal, and one to break your fast too. And some warm cider, if you’re lucky.’ 

The main door opened again and Sansa turned to see the cart-owner enter, rubbing his hands in the cold. ‘And I need a room for him too.’ 

He stopped and clasped his hands together, an open, pleasantly surprised expression on his face.

Her room was small, dingy, and smelt of damp, but Sansa had never felt so relieved to be indoors. The thought of being alone out in the open countryside at night caused her throat to clog. The mattress was made of straw, with blankets heaped on top. 

After bolting the door, she folded herself up in the blankets, resting her cheek on the scratchy pillow. She shut her eyes, saw Sandor there, and opened them again. She tried to imagine what had happened after she’d fled from the pool. Had he returned, seen that she’d gone, and been glad? Had he ever returned? Was Stranger still harnessed there, alone? 

She clamped her hand between her thighs over her dress. She didn’t seem to hurt up there anymore. Her stomach felt awash with guilt, and she drifted into sleep, exhausted. 

He had left her. And now she was alone.

***

Fuck Sansa, what have you done? She’s – gone. She left. I did that to her, and she ran. 

Stranger can’t go fast enough. Come on, you stubborn bastard. I’m up on the fields now, and I can’t see her prints any more. Track’s dusty. She’ll head north – won’t she? How will she know where to go? The thought of her telling her family that’s she’s not a maid, the shame of it for her. Hells, the horizon’s wide, tight-lipped. We kick up some pigeons and they crack into the sky like arrows. 

She’s out there, on foot, easy prey for robbers, rapers, _Lannisters_. 

I dismount at a crossroads. A sign, any sign. Cart tracks are fresh enough. A bootprint? Maybe. 

And then I see it, caught on a thorn – a long, shining hair, fine as goldspin. I loose it, twine it round my finger.

It’s the colour of fire.

***

Sansa wasn’t sure how late it was when she opened her eyes again, but voices and laughter still wafted from downstairs. Her stomach was making guttural noises. She pushed herself up, wincing at the pain in her wrist. She carefully lifted up some of the binding. Pale, blueish flesh. The wound had hardened and had an unnerving glimmer to it. She replaced it quickly, feeling nauseous, and went to the door.

The main room had filled a little more, with men of various ages. She hovered at the bottom stone step, glancing around to see if anyone looked threatening – freeriders or brigands, or anyone of a higher rank who might rout her out – but they all looked like peasants to her, roughly-garbed, and no one seemed to carry a weapon.

The landlady gestured for her to come to an empty table in the corner. ‘I’ll get you some grub.’ She swept her unfussily through the room. Most of the men glanced up as she passed, a mixture of looks from curiosity to lewdness. ‘Don’t mind this lot,’ she said, ‘apart from those two.’ She gestured to the friends she had been sitting with earlier, who squinted at her lopsidedly. ‘You want to watch him. And him.’

Sansa sat down and looked about carefully, keeping her head bowed. The cart-owner was sitting near the fire at his own table and caught her eye. He waved. She nodded to him as politely as she could. Her stomach tightened as he came over.

‘My thanks for the room for the night.’ The lines on his face deepened. 

Sansa swallowed, remembering her manners. ‘My thanks for the journey.’

He bowed his head in a pretence of solemnity, pursing his lips. ‘May I join you for dinner?’ I’m Merek,’ he continued unaffectedly, seeing her uncertainty. He seemed kind, and humorous, with a glint in his eye and a lightness in his step that cheered her. 

‘Fira,’ she said, nodding her assent shyly. He pulled up a chair. 

The landlady plonked down a wooden bowl of stew and a spoon in front of Sansa. 

‘I’ll have one and all, mother,’ he said to the woman. She nodded and left them. The steam from the bowl flushed Sansa’s cheeks as she leant over it, smelling meat and salt, and she began to sip. 

Merek put his elbow on the table, clapped a hand on his cheek, and studied her. ‘So what’s your story then, really?’ 

‘I can’t truly say,’ she replied, not making eye contact. 

He watched her slurping her meal. ‘Woman of mystery, eh? Just my type.’ He said it lightly, and seemed to be joking. 

She felt bold. ‘Have you not got a woman, then?’ 

He rubbed his face. ‘There’s a wife. And children, too many.’ The landlady returned with his stew. ‘Let’s have two ciders as well, if you please, mother.’ 

‘I’m not your mother,’ she said as she turned. ‘Thank the gods.’ 

Merek spooned up some stew and eyed the chunk of turnip swimming in the filmy broth. ‘Mmm, just what I’ve always wanted.’ Sansa gave the tiniest giggle. He pointed his spoon at her. ‘There you go. I knew there was one in there somewhere.’

After they’d finished their meal, Merek regaling her with stories of his brood of children, who seemed to rampage through the countryside terrorising farm animals, Sansa had relaxed enough to smile and talk more freely. The hot cider wound through her and made her head spin. 

Around them, the atmosphere had become jovial and rowdy, murmurs swelling into shouts, and the landlady’s friends had started calling out ‘Redhead! Redhead!’ and gesturing to the pair of them until Merek had escorted her over to join them.

The landlady’s name was Maerwynn, and her friends, who seemed so entrenched in the place that their forms seemed to merge with the furniture, were Fendrel and Brom. They were filthy drunk, the pair of them, but very benign with it. Brom was a vague-eyed old man as big as an ox, with a bulbous nose and raw-looking knuckles. And if Brom was old, then Fendrel seemed as ancient as a First Man, white-haired with dirt in the creases of his face, and an incorrigible, near-toothless smile. 

Sansa had never really spoken much to commoners, and found them rough-mannered but curiously gracious, as if they’d once been highborn and were trying to recall it. Their language was foul, but she’d heard the same, if not worse, from Sandor. With Merek at her shoulder, squashed up on a bench, she let them unspool their stories about their lives, and all the fights they’d fought in, and the women they’d fallen in love with. She didn’t suppose much of it was true, though by the time Brom was getting misty-eyed about a lady pig-farmer, she was giggling helplessly at both of them. Fendrel started singing a song about bears and fair maidens, holding her good hand and crooning it to her, as if serenading her. She bit her lip and tried to keep a straight face, beginning to feel a little light-headed.

When Fendrel had finished, his voice dwindling wispily away, and peering at her like he couldn’t quite see where she’d gone, she removed her hand from his and went to get up. The men began to lever themselves awkwardly upwards, but she held up her hand, smiling shyly. 

‘Please don’t. Thank you for – the evening.’ 

They creaked back down onto the benches, groaning. Merek began to shift on the bench to let her pass. 

‘Goodnight,’ she said to him, as the other two began singing to each other, two different songs at the same time. 

‘You off tomorrow, then?’ 

Sansa nodded, though in reality she felt much less certain. 

‘You’ll be alright, will you?’ 

She nodded again, a smaller movement. 

‘How old are you?’ he asked, still with that effortless curiosity.

‘Sixteen.’ She ran her finger along a groove in the table. 

‘Bit young to be out here like this.’ He gazed at her a little pensively. ‘I’m a little worried about you, truth be told.’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘Though don’t tell my wife.’ 

She smiled. ‘Thank you Merek, I’ll be alright. I just need to get home.’ 

‘And where’s home, then? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t seem to be accustomed to this sort of establishment.’ 

She swallowed, trying to look casual. ‘North.’ 

‘North?’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘You don’t want be going much further north.’ 

‘Why not?’ 

He looked at her as if the answer was plain. ‘Winter is coming, why else?’ 

Her heart panged at hearing her family’s words, and she fought back a tear. 

Merek eyed her sidelong. ‘Didn’t mean to upset you.’ 

She shook her head with a tight little smile and made to go past him. ‘Excuse me.’ 

He gave her mock-noble bow and then tipped his head up at her. ‘Want some company?’ He said it very brightly, as if he knew she’d refuse him, and she couldn’t help grinning shyly at his audacity. She shook her head, very definitely, and he sat back with a smile on his face, utterly unoffended, holding his palms out. ‘Your loss, my lady.’

Sansa made sure that the door was securely bolted before she used her chamber pot and lay down, the straw rustling and squeaking beneath her. She shouldn’t have drunk so much cider. The bed was moving like a rolling rowboat. She lay for a while on her back, waiting for the dark shadows in the room to still. It had got quieter, with men stamping up the stone steps past her door. There was a scratching sound in the ceiling, maybe a rat. 

A horse neighed softly somewhere. 

***

With every hoofstep, my heart’s dragging down to my stomach. What if I’ve chosen wrong, and I’m moving further and further away from her? I can picture her, a tiny figure in a gown, far off and with her back to me. Always just at the edge of the horizon. And then - strung to a tree. Boot on her face in the mud. Blood beading at her throat. You’d slice through her skin like a wire through goat’s cheese. My mind’s filling up. 

Thank the gods - an inn.

There’s no cart here. Maybe she didn’t take a cart. I go in, have a scan around, take the stairs. Old man coughs and says, stern, _can I help you, ser_ and I say _I’m looking for a girl_ , and he says _we don’t take to that kindly here_ , and I think about killing him and say _not that kind of a girl you auroch, I’m looking for a girl who’s been in my care_. 

He frowns and says _there are no girls of any sort here_ , but I want to believe he’s lying and I barge upstairs and shoulder the doors, him gooseflapping behind me. Rooms are all empty aside from a couple of gobby travellers. Fuck. 

I buy some oats and some wine from the old man who’s not looking best pleased. Stranger’s lathered, giving me the whites of his eye but I say _come on boy, we’re not done yet_.

It’s getting dark. She’s out there, with the night pulling itself around her. I know she can make a fire, but she’s no weapons, save the dagger, and she didn’t take a blanket. She’ll freeze. Starve. I shouldn’t have left her. Should’ve stayed, stroked her face, mopped her up. I’m a craven dog.

Back at the crossroads. There’s fuck all moon. 

***

Sansa awoke with nastily thin taste in her throat. The day was just dawning, dust specks turning in the light that filtered through the narrow window. The room smelt sourly of damp. Her skull seemed to have expanded in the night and ached horribly. 

She sat up and promptly threw up onto the floor next the bed, just missing her chamber pot. She lay down again, shuddering, watching some of the vomit trickle slowly down a wide gap between two floorboards. 

She lay in her room all morning, sipping water tentatively from her skin, and vomiting again, this time into her chamber pot. She got up to let in Maerwynn, who had banged loudly on the door to rouse her to break her fast - the landlady took one look at the floor, came back with a mop and bucket, and made Sansa clean it up. 

When the day was brighter, Sansa went downstairs to the empty dining room and persuaded Maerwynn to let her have the room for the day and the next night, handing her the brooch as payment. Merek seemed to have gone. She picked at the bread Maerwynn had given her for her midday meal, but couldn’t look at the soup. 

Up to her hips in a shallow bathbucket of tepid water, she wondered when she’d ever see anyone she knew ever again. 

***

As soon as there’s a breath of light I’ve my heels in Stranger again. Hardly slept. Sky’s the colour of the dress she was wearing when we left the battle, the one that had bound my hand, the one that she tore with her teeth and wet in the river. I’ve lost that hair I had round my finger. Has she been out all night and woken up drenched in morndew, woken up shivering like a halfwit? 

I find two more inns in the morning and kick all the doors in. One man goes for his sword but I draw mine and he looks sick and puts his hands up. A room in the other inn has a girl, red-haired, rolling around and my heart thunks and I’m about to take the bowels out of the man she’s on top of when she looks around and screams and she’s a whore with a dirty great scarslash across her face. 

The landlord says _I know you, you’re the Hound, there are people looking for you_ , and I say _you going to tell them_ , then with my finger in his chest, and he says _not if you make it worth my while to guard my mouth_ , and I stuff coin in his greedy fist and go to walk out, then change my mind and put my sword in his fat belly, watch the blood bubble from his lips whilst my coins waterfall to the floor.

***

In the afternoon, Sansa wandered outside and into the neighbouring fields, high with starched meadowgrasses. She lay down, surrounded by weeds and wildflowers, looking up at the sky, until woolly, dove-grey clouds nosed in and rain began to hit her face. 

Sansa had no idea what to do next. She supposed that she needed to find someone else to get her to Winterfell, but who? Anyone could agree, and then take her to Harrenhall, which couldn’t be far now, or back south for a ransom. Or do worse to her, rape her or kill her. She needed to find someone that she could trust. She wished Merek hadn’t left. 

Sansa stood up and went to the window. It had rained all afternoon and was getting dark again. Her stomach was beginning to burn a little less and her head was clearer. She put her forehead to the near-opaque glass, watching the plump droplets hit, then blew on it and used one finger to draw a flower with perfect, triangular petals. 

There was a knock on the door. ‘It’s Maerwynn.’ Sansa unbolted the door. The landlady had her arms folded. ‘There’s someone here for you.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically the most fun I have doing this fanfic is looking up medieval names... there's still time to get Hildebrondus and Digory in there, ho ho.


	15. Chapter 15

Rain’s coming down now, grey, dead rain. I’m being spat in the face by a column of people on either side of me – Fira, Father, the housekeep, Fetch, anyone I’ve ever known or cared about. 

She’s dead. She must be dead by now. She’s a wolf though – remember that. No – not on her own. Not with one hand all wrapped up. Gods, why did she run? If she wanted to punish me, it fucking worked. Hells. I gave her my word. Told her I’d see her safe, and home, and – I’ve failed her. I feel like I’ve been knifed, all over. 

Another inn. Stranger’s shaking. I take him to the stables, get him properly seen to.

Nothing but a clot of steaming drunks. Might as well throw myself on that fucking great fire now. I ask the landlady, who’s slouching, three mugs of ale in each hand, if she’s seen a girl here. _What sort of girl_? she says, suspicious, and I think - she _has_ \- and say _the sort that shouldn’t be on her own_. 

_I need more than that_ , she says and I think, straight-backed, wolfblood in her veins, graceful as a damned deer, hair like the sky on fire, the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your whole life and I say _this high, ten and six, red hair down to here_. 

She thins her eyes at me and says, _what if I have_? And I start to lose it and say, _if you have, you’ll tell me where she is_ , and she says, _what’s it to you_? and I say, _I’m her escort_ , and she says, _not much of one_ and I think about taking her fucking jaw off.

_Where is she_ , I say, _is she here_? I say and make to go up the stairs and she stops me and says _I’ll get her_ and takes the door. 

__***_ _

__Sansa felt a rush of panic, relief, and then anger flood through her. She stood very still. ‘I don’t want to see him.’_ _

__‘I don’t give an auroch either way,’ said Maerwynn ungraciously, turning to go down the steps. ‘Just giving you the message.’_ _

__Sansa sat down on the bed, her heart suddenly beating very fast, a little trapped bird. He’d come. If he’d found her, it meant he’d been looking. She didn’t want to move, knowing he was down there. She chewed her thumbnail down to the skin. She ran her fingers of her good hand through her hair nervously, trying to imagine what they’d say to each other, how angry he’d be. Having waited as long as she dared, she took a deep breath, and went downstairs._ _

__For a short moment she couldn’t see him in the gloom. There were other figures in the room, muttering and clanking down beer goblets. And then there he was, with his back to her, towering over Maerwynn in the corner by the fire. He was leaning towards her, jabbing a finger at her. Sansa took a few steps closer._ _

__‘Don’t fool with me, woman,’ she heard him say, in a threatening low voice._ _

__‘Big words from a big man,’ she was saying, seeming not in the slightest bit afraid of this man a foot and a half taller than her._ _

__He bent his torso forward, his hand going to the handle of his sword, snarling. ‘You’ll give them back or I’ll gut you like a fish.’_ _

‘They’re not _yours_ , are they?’ As she spoke, Maerwynn spotted Sansa. He saw that the landlady was looking past his shoulder and stiffened, then straightened. 

And turned around. 

*** 

The drinkers are looking at me like I’m a wyvern. Landlady comes back. _She’s coming_ , she says, offhand. My legs have gone. Gods. I haven’t eaten in a day. Hand’s shaking. Hells. Let it be her. It has to be her. I watch the door, heart thumping a bloody footguard’s tattoo. 

Why doesn’t she come? She – she doesn’t want to see me. Maybe it’s not her. Landlady’s eyeing me - _how did she pay for her room_? I ask. She tightens her mouth, shrugs. I think of Sansa looking at her necklace, her wolfbrooch, holding them up to the firelight in the woods, before – before everything. 

I stand up again. _Did she give you jewels_? I say and she tries to look blank. I’ve a rush of relief, like a wave, and lean over her, coin in her fucking liar’s face. 

_You’ll give them back_ , I say. She puts her fists in her pockets. _Don’t fool with me_ , woman, I say, wanting to pluck her cunting eyes out of her head. And then her eyes dart over my shoulder and I think – 

She’s _there_. 

__***_ _

__Sandor was soaked to the skin, hair plastered to both sides of his face. Steam seemed to be rising off him. His expression was thunderous – truly the Hound again – but his eyes seemed to widen in relief just for a moment as he caught sight of her, before hardening again. Sansa stood two hands away from them, looking at him, half-afraid._ _

__Maerwynn glanced back and forth between them both. ‘You do know him then? Have to say I’m surprised.’ She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, and pushed past him, giving her the charm and the brooch with a twinge of reluctance. ‘ _You_ can have them. I’m not giving them to _him_.’ _ _

__The room seemed to have gone very quiet. Sansa took them from her, looked at him again quickly, and backed away, turning and dashing up the stairs._ _

__***_ _

__She’s got the fucking widest eyes I’ve ever seen, like I’m about to pick her up in my claws and fly off with her. Her hand’s bound over her chest again. A different dress._ _

__I feel like I’ve been warhammered. She’s alive._ _

__And then she bloody backsteps and disappears up the stairs. I’m after her like a shot. Gods, she’s _here_ , I’ve _found_ her, and she’s still fucking running away from me. Don’t fucking run from me, Sansa. All this time and she was safe. _ _

__***_ _

__She heard him come after her, two steps at a time, his sword scraping against the stone wall. He was coming up after her, and fast. Reaching her room, fear bubbling up in her throat, she began to shove the door shut and slammed it on his hand._ _

__‘ _Fuck_.’ He gave the slightest groan from behind the door. _ _

__Sansa put her back against it, pushing as hard she could._ _

__He pushed it from the other side, then stopped, and spoke quite calmly. ‘Fucking hells, Sansa, let me in.’ She didn’t move. ‘Just let the door go and release my damned hand, then.’_ _

__She quickly pulled the door back just a fraction, enough for him to pull his arm back, then tried to force it shut again, but he braced his shoulder against it and barged in, almost falling into the room._ _

__***_ _

__I’m chasing her, not caring if I sound like a rampaging madman. I’m not losing her again. She whips through a door and _fuck_ – my fucking hand. _ _

__I trick her, crash into the room and I’m there, facing her, and I just want to fucking grab her and shake her and put her head to my chest. Honestly, she’s got that look on her that she had in her chamber at the battle, a deer ready to bolt. But something else too – like she could hit me._ _

__***_ _

__‘What are you _doing_ here?’ His voice sounded torn. _ _

__‘I’m not sorry,’ she said, vehemently shaking her head. ‘I’m not.’_ _

__‘I didn’t ask you to be,’ he said, his ribcage still heaving in big breaths._ _

__Sansa looked at him, tears beginning to come. She blinked them back. ‘I didn’t know what –‘ her voice was rising. ‘I thought I should - go.’_ _

__He was shaking his head, small movements, and couldn’t seem to speak, just looking at her with a mixture of relief and fury. Suddenly, he sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. ‘Fuck, Sansa.’_ _

__‘Don’t curse at me.’_ _

__He looked up at her, dropping a hand in exasperation. His face was wet from the rain. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve been -’ He swallowed, thickly. ‘I thought I was going to find you in a ditch somewhere, with your throat cut.’_ _

__Pain flooded her chest. ‘You _left_ me,’ she said, with anguished simplicity. ‘You just left me, lying there, in that wood. With no clothes on.’ It would have sounded funny if she hadn’t been so fuming. He looked crushed. She stared at him, her eyes stinging, daring him to speak, but he didn’t. She gave an angry sigh, her shoulders sagging, and spoke, flatly, to the floor. ‘I know I wasn’t very good.’_ _

__‘No –‘ The word emanated from him like a long sigh._ _

__She looked up at him, despondent, furious. ‘Well I _can’t_ have been. Other - otherwise you wouldn’t have -’ _ _

__‘Sansa, for the gods’ sakes stop talking.’ He gazed up at her, looking tormented, closed his eyes very slowly as if cursing himself and opened them again. He seemed to want her to rain blows down on him. The next words emerged slowly, and heavily, as if dredged from deep mud. ‘I hurt you. I said I wouldn’t hurt you. And I did.’_ _

__Sansa looked down at her feet. ‘It – doesn’t matter.’ She shivered, and then looked up, defiant. ‘It’s supposed to, isn’t it? The first time?’_ _

__He shook his head just slightly. ‘That doesn’t – make it any better. It should – I should never have –‘ he closed his eyes again. ‘Done that to you.’_ _

__She gazed at the wall. ‘I wanted you to though, didn’t I?’ she said glumly, biting her lip._ _

__‘That doesn’t mean I should have.’ He took a vast breath in, sighed, and said in a rush, ‘What have I done to you? I’ve ruined you. For - your family.’_ _

__Still looking at the wall, she said, ‘I don’t care about that.’_ _

__‘You will care. You _will_.’ There was a silence. ‘You’re just a girl.’ _ _

__‘You know I’m not. You saw.’ She waited for him to realise what she meant. Her moonblood, all that time ago, on a mattress made jagged by her panicked attack on it. ‘You told the Queen,’ she said, slightly accusingly._ _

__He looked down, ashamed. ‘A young woman, then. But a very young woman.’_ _

__She sat down on the floor by the wall, still a little afraid._ _

__‘What were you doing, giving that woman your house sigil jewel?’ he asked, a little testily._ _

__She felt wretched. ‘I had to pay. I owe her for a night, and for tonight.’_ _

__He sighed. ‘I’ve paid her.’_ _

__***_ _

__My anger’s loosing, just a great fucking falling of relief and sadness and guilt, snow off a roof._ _

Those words - _you left me_ \- are like arrows, sailing down in an arc from afar, one, two, three, and they floor me and I stop my breath-heaving. Hells. 

__She’s speaking madness like she wasn’t any good and the shame of it comes over me like a thick yellow fog. What have I done to her, that she can think it’s her fault? I’m a dog._ _

__There’s a stench in the room, like vomit. Hells, who’s been in here?_ _

__***_ _

__They stayed sitting there, hardly looking at each other, but beginning to talk more calmly, long silences in between. He told her how he’d searched for her. Stranger was practically broken. Sandor had paid extra for the horse to have a larger stable and twice as much food and water._ _

__She told him about the turnip cart and Merek, though kept quiet about quite how friendly he’d ended up being, and how ill she’d been. She also didn’t tell him that she’d given Merek Joffrey’s gold chain. She didn’t care. It would pay to feed those children of his for a while._ _

__After a while, Sandor said, ‘I’ve got your – I’ve got your dress.’ Sansa looked straight at him then, remembering the blood on it. ‘I’ll have it washed.’ He looked hugely sad, then wrinkled his nose. ‘What is that bloody smell?’_ _

__Sansa spoke over-hastily. ‘We should go downstairs. We should – eat.’_ _

__***_ _

__I’m on her bed. I’m so spent I could lie down and die right here. She’s tucked up against the wall. She’ll never touch me again, not how she did. You’ve ruined it._ _

__Our words are careful, like we’re testing the depth of a river. I try not to think of her rolling around on a pile of turnips as her thanks for that cart journey._ _

__Gods, she’s got it in for this hand. It’s like it’s been plunged in ice. Or fire._ _

__***_ _

__They sat at a bench at the back of the room, a small space in between them, and Sandor glowering at anyone who glanced at them._ _

__Maerwynn came over to their table, her hands on her hips. ‘It’s pig tonight.’_ _

__Sandor nodded at her curtly. ‘I’ll take a room.’_ _

__‘Will you, now?’ she said. He glared at her stonily. She paused. ‘Very well, coin speaks.’_ _

__Brom and Fendrel were at a neighbouring table, swooning over at Sansa. ‘Will you have us sing you another song, beautiful redhead?’_ _

__Sandor gave them a dark look. ‘I’ll cut your fucking tongues out first.’ They looked alarmed, even in the fog of drunkenness._ _

__‘Not tonight, thank you,’ she smiled at them, hastily._ _

__Brom put his hands together as if in prayer and Fendrel put his arm around his shoulders. They turned to each other and started to sing. Sandor eyed them with disgust._ _

__‘You don’t have to be so horrible,’ said Sansa, scoring lines with her fingernail through blob of candlewax on the table. ‘They were very kind to me last night.’_ _

__He almost spat. ‘A pair of fucking cravens like them? They look like they bleed wine.’_ _

__She bit her lip, almost grinning, thinking of all the times he’d closed his eyes blissfully as he swigged from his wineskin._ _

__The food came, fried bacon and potatoes and cabbage. Sansa suddenly realised how ravenous she was._ _

__Sandor watched her. ‘You’re hungry.’_ _

__‘Didn’t eat today,’ she replied, through a mouthful of potato and salt-laden gravy. He seemed to find that hard to believe and raised his eyebrows. ‘Sick,’ she said, still stuffing her face._ _

__He looked concerned. ‘Fever again?’_ _

__She shook her head and picked a bit of bacon gristle out of her teeth. ‘Cider.’_ _

__He breathed a short, surprised laugh, eyeing her with a mixture of alarm and faint pride, and began to eat._ _

__They didn’t say much to each other for the rest of the meal. Sandor kept looking at her as if not quite believing that she was real, gulping from a large mug of ale. He offered it to her and grinned slowly as she emphatically shook her head._ _

__She looked at his hand on the table, slightly swollen from where she’d crunched it in the door, and the small scar from her dagger on the back of it. He smelt of damp leather._ _

__Sandor nodded at her bound wrist. ‘How’s that?’_ _

__Sansa shook her head. ‘Not good.’ The heat of the room and the food in her belly sent a sudden wave of exhaustion over her. ‘I’m – I need to go to sleep.’_ _

__He looked down at the table and gave a small nod, standing up, the table legs scraping loudly. He eyed the room with distaste. ‘I’ll see you to your room.’_ _

__***_ _

__Landlady looks at me like she’s been feasting on lemons, thieving bitch. Sansa’s still wary. There’s a crevasse between us. But she stuffs her face and tells me she got drunk on cider. Two fucking fog-eyed dunders are making eyes at her – seems they were her company last night. Hells, what did I abandon her to? Alemouthed lunks, breathing filthy songs into her face. No wonder she got in her cups._ _

__We’re like Stranger and her mare when they first met. She’s still not smiling, not quite, but I’m hoping to the gods that she’s losing her fear. More than that. That she’ll – give me her pardon. I don’t care about anything else, I know I can’t have her. Just as long as she trusts me again._ _

__

__***_ _

__She walked up the rough stone steps, just lit by a single candle on the wall, with him just behind her. It had gone very quiet. She wondered if he was hoping to come in. She didn’t know if she wanted him to. They reached her door._ _

__‘Sansa.’_ _

__She turned round, slowly, her back to the door. She could hardly see his face. ‘Can I still – will you let me take you to Winterfell?’ His voice was desperately uncertain, as if he was trying to balance on a thin rope._ _

__She took a little breath in and nodded._ _

__He swallowed. She could hear the gurgle wind down his throat. ‘Goodnight, then.’ He turned and quickly went back down the steps._ _

__***_ _

__I hang back at the door. If I go in - I’ll want to wrap myself around her, never let her go. I have to show her. Show her I can rule myself._ _

__***_ _

__Sansa lay on her bed. It had finally stopped raining and a wavering patch of moonlight hovered on the wall. She felt utterly relieved. He wouldn’t hurt her. He still wanted to see her safe. She supposed he’d gone back down to drink some more beer and tried to imagine him being serenaded by Fendrel and Brom, if they dared. Unlikely, she smiled to herself, impishly._ _

__***_ _

__The landlady plonks more beer on the table. _Kissed and made up, then_ , she says and I say _leave me be, woman_ , and then I call her back, say _can you wash this_ , handing her Sansa’s dress and she looks hard at me then and I try not to show my shame. _ _

__I’m drinking more ale than I should. She’s said I could still take her back, back to Winterfell. Each gulp tastes like relief._ _

Those two fools are shouting over at me. Hells, I could put a sword at each of their throats and they’d just give me those watery half-toothed grins. One of them staggers over to me. Piss off, you old goat. _Is our redhead well, m’lord_? he croons and I can near see the beer misting the air. _Don’t fucking m’lord me_ , I say _and she’s fine so you’d best back off_. He says, _oh, but I’m glad to hear it, she’s a precious one_. 

Another man, younger, earwigs and comes on over, slaps a hand on the drunk’s back, says _are you talking of our Fira_? 

_You sound like you know her well_ , I say, sharp. _No, not well_ , he says, _I spent the night with her last night is all_. 

I stand up, hold his face to the table. _Not like that_ he says, squirming, _I swear, I swear it_. I let him go and he rubs his neck and looks at me, eyes like a stoat’s, not as afraid as he should be. 

_So you’re the one she was running away from_ , he says, bold as a brasspiece. _And who the hells are you_ , I say. I’ve a few years on him, and more scars, but he’s not got much else going for him. Scrawny as fuck, hair like a scarecrow’s. 

He holds up his palms. _I brought her here, friend, seeing as you ask so politely_ , he says. _Well, I’m here now and don’t friend me_ , I say, and he says, fresh as you like, _and she’s happy about that is she_? 

I’m feeling the rage brew in me and I say, _what business is it of yours, you cunt_? and he says, _maybe I should go and see her, check you haven’t done her in_ , and I say, _you’d best hold your tongue before I put you back down on this table and wrench it out of your fucking throat_ , and he looks a bit more afeared then and says _alright, friend_. 

The old drunk says, like he hasn’t heard any of it, _ah, but she’s a beauty isn’t she_? and I say _ay_ , and sit down and say _ay_ again, and the strawhaired one looks at me differently then. 

Landlady comes over and says _I’ll throw you out if make any more trouble, I don’t care how big you bloody are_ , and I give up, sit quiet, drink, as the racket grows around me, and crash up to bed. 

She took my sister’s name. I hear it, over and over, and hear it mixed with hers, on every breath. She’s two rooms down from me. Gods, I might as well be lying on a nailbed. Itches to fuck. She’s here, alive, and letting me stay with her. The walls are collapsing, shelving gently onto my head. 

__***_ _

__Sansa lay awake, thinking of him sleeping in another small, damp room somewhere, his big frame cramped in a cot bed. She realised that she’d forgotten to bolt the door, and looked over at it, her mind watery, until her eyes shut._ _

__***_ _

I rise early, go downstairs. Head’s a sea-fret. There’s a kitchenmaid whose smile falls into her pockets when she catches my burnt side. I lean on the door frame, say, _I’m after food for my onward journey, can you rustle up anything, there’s coin in it for you if you can_ , and she softens a little then. Gods, Sansa. I’ll be nothing more than a sack of feathers soon enough. 

__The kitchen lass disappears and I step outside. Rain’s coming down, little blunts. Not happy riding weather. I get to the stable trough, chuck water over my neck, scrub up a bit._ _

I’m heading back in and there’s a cough and the cart man’s there, his horse reluctant, loud mud-sucks. He nods at me and the cart is sliding past and I clear my throat a bit and say, _my thanks_. He jerks at me, surprised. _For bringing her here_ , I say. 

He smiles, but carefully, like I’m about to catch him with a whip. _You’ll tell her I wished her well_ , he says. I nod, he rolls off, and I think, no I bloody won’t, _friend_. 

Kitchenmaid taps me on the back. She has bread and cheese wrapped up, Sansa’s dress – I take that, dead quick – and a mug of milk which she thrusts at me, and she bloody beams when I magic a coin from her ear. This being kind lark’s not so bad. But I’d best save it for her. 

__I ask about horses, too – lass reckons there’ll be some at a town up west. I don’t like the idea of that, straight into Harrenhall’s mouth, but if she wants to ride alone, I’ll do it._ _

__***_ _

__Sansa awoke thinking she’d heard a knock. It must have been morning, though a dark-clouded one. The room’s scant furniture was foggy and vague-edged. There was another muffled knock on the door. She rose, wearing her smock, dragging a corner of one blanket from the bed, which brought the other one down with it onto the floorboards. She stood at the door._ _

__‘It’s me.’ His voice came softly._ _

__She opened it._ _

__Sandor looked clean and dry, and less lined than the night before. He was holding a clay mug and looked down at it sheepishly, before handing it to her. ‘Got this from a kitchenmaid.’_ _

__Sansa put her nose to it. Hot milk. She looked up at him and smiled just a little, letting the blanket go and putting her fingers round the mug to warm them._ _

__He seemed apprehensive and was looking very effortfully at just her eyes, and not her smock. ‘Do you want me to get you a horse?’_ _

__She turned the mug round to him so that her bandaged wrist was nearest to him. ‘I don’t think I can ride, still.’_ _

__‘You’ll ride with me, then?’ He was very tentative._ _

__She nodded and quickly bent her head to drink._ _

__***_ _

__At her door she looks better than a painting, all dozy-eyed, her hair falling over her. And she says she’ll ride with me, still, and I nod and look serious and inside my guts are bubbling up, sticking in my throat._ _

__Landlady’s nowhere to be seen when we come downstairs. Got her head down, I reckon, I say. She was as bloody gone as the rest of them by the end of the night._ _

__Rain’s thinned, but it’s there, enough to get under the collar. In the stables, Stranger’s looking bloody filthy – I was too tired to sort him last night. Sansa puts a hand on his flank, and his muscles travel like a wave under the skin. She whispers something in his ear – I think she says sorry, but I can’t be sure – and he flares his nostrils and shows her the white of his eye._ _

__She keeps her hands on his nose as I brush him down and saddle up. He doesn’t give me that look, soft bastard._ _

__And now here she is, brought up against me as we ride off, just as before. Except not as before. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, whether she’d rather a portcullis was slammed between her back and my chest. But, slowly, it’s as if the rain’s getting in her bones, and I swear she sags against me just a little, and then a little bit more._ _

__***_ _

__They rode through a dank morning, mist hanging like wraiths above the fields, the paths squelching and slippery beneath Stranger’s hooves. Sansa was burrowed into the hood of her cloak, the rain springy on it. However miserable she had been at the inn, she had been at least been dry._ _

__She tilted her head up to him. ‘I’m not sleeping in the woods.’_ _

__‘I know,’ he said, near her ear. ‘We’ll find somewhere.’_ _

__As they crossed a mud-churned path, he’d told her that they had skirted Harrenhall now and had the Bay of Crabs on the east and the Trident at the west. They would have to cross the river somehow in a day. She knew it was a dangerous time. He could take a boat from Saltpans and head to Braavosi or Pentos, but instead he was going within two or three days’ ride of Gregor and his men. The Mountain wouldn’t give Sandor much brotherly affection after that tourney fight in front of King Robert, and would have heard about him deserting by now. And all this to see her home._ _

__She’d missed that feeling of him, couched between his thighs, his arms against her waist. Picturing them both there together made her stomach contract. She did forgive him. He had run away when he should have been at his most comforting, but she did, somehow, understand. He’d never had a chance to be his own man, always serving others, carrying out their vile demands. He was learning just as much as she was, learning how to be with her, and with himself._ _

__Sandor pulled up under some tall ash trees to rest Stranger, pushing her forward slightly with his chest as he dismounted. Sansa swung her leg over to face him and he put his hands lightly on her waist, bringing her down carefully. For a moment, they stood there, Sansa looking up at him, and his hands still resting gently on her sides. Then she tucked her good hand underneath his arm, around his torso, and put her cheek to his chest._ _

__Sandor made a quiet noise in his throat, as if he’d just been stabbed with a needle. He leant down and put his face in her hair, his arms at her shoulder blades. His breath on her ear. They didn’t move. He squeezed her tighter, until she was so breathless that she had to tap him on the back. He released her sheepishly._ _

__They sat down side by side on a fallen trunk. Sandor had bought bread and cheese from the kitchenmaid, and they ate it, not speaking._ _

__He kept looking at her, softly. ‘I’m sorry it’s raining.’ She screwed her nose up at him and went back to eating. ‘I’m sorry, Sansa.’ His voice was like gravel._ _

__Sansa glanced at him again. He looked crestfallen, his eyes dull, a husk. She stopped chewing. She put her face up to the drizzle for a moment, and then faced him again and took his hand that rested there in his lap. He held it stiffly there for a moment, before his fingers relaxed, loosened, and clasped hers._ _

__***_ _

She waits for me to help her off Stranger, I’m certain of it, and it’s as if she’s just air, air and water. And she puts her arm around me and her cheek is on my chest and it’s all I can do not to just bloody crack apart, and I think _forgive me forgive me forgive me_ with my face in her hair, crushing her to me, waiting for her to evaporate. Oh to the sevens. I feel battered, worse than any battle save the last one. 

She’s so bloody strong, in her own way. I’m kindling next to her, I swear it. She has me rubbing to splinters and dust in her hand, whether she knows it or not. She’s not mine - but I’m – 

Hers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Doooo leave me a review if you are enjoying! Kisses x


	16. Chapter 16

That night they reached another inn on a quiet road near Lord Harroway’s Town. Sansa could feel Sandor’s body tense behind her as they approached the stables. There were three coursers there, identically dressed, short caparisons with an emblem of a two stone towers and a bridge. 

‘That’s the Freys’ sigil. They’re sworn to my fa –‘ She stopped herself. ‘To the Starks.’ 

‘Ay, they let your brother over the water as they came south. Wonder why they’re here, then.’ 

‘If they’re sworn to Robb, can’t we talk to them? Find out what’s happening, and where Robb is. Maybe we can find their camp?’

He paused. ‘I don’t know. Don’t assume anything. I don’t like it.’ He frowned, and slid off the saddle behind her. ‘Stay here.’ 

Sansa widened her eyes, clutching the reins with her good hand. ‘Don’t leave me here,’ she said, as Stranger stamped a foot. 

Sandor looked up at her, calming his destrier with his hand. ‘I won’t be long. It’s best I go in alone. Get the measure of it.’ He put the hood of his cloak over his head and stalked out of the stable.

***

Three Freys in the corner. Half-cut. They don’t pay too much heed to me, and I keep my face turned away, ask the landlord for a room. 

I say, _I'm bringing a girl in_ , and he says, _what sort of girl_ , and I say, _what sort do you think, the sort to take a tumble with_.

He screws up his nose – it’s got a shine on it like it’s been polished all day long – until I press coin into his hand and say _have a care man, it’s been a long journey on the road_ and he puts his lips together and nods and says no more. 

One of the men says, loud, _hear that boys, we’ve a wantingwoman under our roof tonight_ , and I say, _shouldn’t think I’ll be sparing her much, friend_ , and they’re all smiles, pissed as anything. 

I duck out, imagining running them through, all three of them snared on my sword at once, stacked up. 

*** 

Sansa’s mind began to fill with possibilities. Perhaps Robb’s troops were heading back this way. Robb could order a party to take her back to Winterfell. What would Sandor do? The thought of him not being with her filled her with a dull dread. She felt a rush of relief when Sandor finally returned. 

‘I’ve got us a room,’ he said. 

‘What about the soldiers?’ 

‘Three very merry men-at-arms,’ he answered. ‘They‘re gone enough already, I think. Didn’t seem to know me.’ 

‘Can’t we talk to them? Surely – they must know what’s going on?’ 

‘I’m not sure.’ He helped her down from Stranger and looked at her pensively. ‘The Freys aren’t well known for their fealty. Until we know exactly what’s going on, I think it’s best we keep our heads down. It would be different if it were your usual Stark bannermen.’ 

She felt frustrated, but conceded. He tucked her cloak around her shoulders and drew her hood up, put his hands over her ears and gazed down at her. She could see the dark grey rims of his eyes. 

He breathed in, bringing himself back to reality. ‘Come on.’ 

Sansa kept her head down, clutching her bundle, and walking on the side of Sandor that was furthest from the corner in which she could see the three soldiers lounging. The landlord, who had tufted white hair and a very red nose, folded his arms and scowled slightly at her. She heard a cheer from the corner and peeped out from her hood as she walked. 

One of the men was holding his beer mug up at Sandor. ‘If you get bored, mate.’ 

Sandor didn’t look over or respond and they quickly took a door to the staircase. He wordlessly led her up the stairs and stopped suddenly outside a door. ‘Sansa - it's - it’s just one room. I thought it best.’ 

She nodded smartly, trying not to redden. 

He seemed to fill half of the room. There was a bed, big enough for one person, a chair riddled with wormwood and a very small, lopsided table with half a candlestick on it. Sansa looked at the bed. 

‘I’ll sleep on the floor,’ said Sandor quietly. 

She took off her cloak and placed her bundle on the bed. ‘You said I was your – your whore, didn’t you?’ 

He looked down at her, grim but shame-faced. ‘We look suspicious, the pair of us. A great big armoured lug and –‘ His face softened just a little, his eyes roaming over her hair. ‘You.’ 

Sansa blushed and then shivered, suddenly and involuntarily. The rain had chilled her from head to toe. She looked at him tentatively. ‘Do you think they might have – hot water?’ 

He flushed slightly and gave a brisk nod. ‘Ay. And I’ll get us some food brought up here.’ 

*** 

They seem too bloody cheerful for Stark bannermen. Too bloody cheerful by half. And why they’re not further west with the rest of them I can’t fathom. Best find out. Later. She’s taking it well, the one room and what I’ve called her, doesn’t even blush, just looks at me as calm and wise as a damned maester. I leave her up there. 

Back in the tavernroom, and one of the Freys has his hands on a serving-lass who doesn’t seem to mind too much. I ask the landlord for food to be sent up, and a bath. _There’s no bath, just hot water_ he says and calls out to the lass, who’s squealing and slapping the man’s hand off. 

I neck a quick wine, in the corner, well away. 

*** 

Sansa waited on the bed, rubbing her wrist gently. Staying in this room together would be much stranger than sleeping side by side in the woods. The spartan domesticity of it and the presence of the Frey men seemed to pour the real world back in after their time in the open air. There had been no rules there. 

There was a bump at the door and a girl, probably the same age as Sansa, pushed it with her bottom to come into the room. ‘No baths here. You’ll have to do with this.’ She was struggling with a large pot and a steaming jug, which she plonked down on the table. It wobbled precariously. She turned and eyed Sansa puckishly. ‘Is this for before or after?’ 

Sansa felt her neck go hot. She tightened her jaw and spoke detachedly. ‘You’re most kind, thank you.’ 

The girl grinned. ‘Oh, one who pretends to be a highborn? He _is_ a lucky sod.’ 

Sansa looked askance, but tried to remain impassive. ‘Those men downstairs. Do you know – which way they’re going?’ 

‘Not my business to ask.’ The girl sniffed, taking out a washing rag and placing it on the table. ‘Unless they want to tell me. Men sometimes like telling me things.’ She played with a strand of unruly hair. ‘They seem pretty cheerful though.’ She paused. ‘Anything else, my lady?’ 

Sansa shook her head. She heard Sandor coming back up the stairs. ‘Thank you.’ 

He halted at the doorway, seeing the girl, who caught sight of his face, her eyes widening slightly, before giving him a mischievous look. ‘Have a nice night,’ she said loudly to Sansa, giving her a wink, and whisked out of the room. 

Sandor stood in the doorway, seeing the bowl on the table. ‘There’s food coming later.’ He paused, uncertainly. ‘I’ll – I’ll go and see to Stranger.’ He began to back out. 

‘Sandor.’ Sansa stood up and looked at him calmly. ‘It’s alright. I don’t mind.’ He looked at her. ‘You should stay here. We don’t want to be seen, do we? And anyway, your story isn’t a very good one if I’m up here and you’re down _there_.’ 

He took a breath in as if to say something, but didn’t speak, looking not a little embarrassed. She flashed him a grin and he smiled sheepishly, shutting and bolting the door. 

He removed his armour and lay down on the bed on his back, stretching his hands behind his head with a groan. ‘I could sleep for a buggering winter.’ 

It was getting dark. Sansa sat down on the floor and began unlacing her boots. When she looked up, he had closed his eyes. She went to the table in her stockinged feet, pouring the steaming water into the bowl. She was dying for a proper bath with oils, but she supposed that this was better than a muddy stream. She leant over and cupped some of the water in her good hand, and put her face in it, then smoothed it over the back of her neck. 

She looked round at Sandor, flung out on the bed. His breathing was slowing. Sansa took a deep breath and began unlacing the leather binding at the front of her dress, loosening her bodice. She knew that this could lead somewhere, but she felt safe with him again. And it seemed that soon they would be in the presence of other people – her family, or bannermen, people that knew her – and she would be expected to assume the role carved out for her. Highborn girl and not she-wolf. And certainly not a girl who could be with someone like him. Her ribs tightened at the thought of him being sent away. 

She glanced over at him and felt a keen, stabbing pain in her ribs. 

Sandor was looking at her, in the same position with his hands behind his head. His face was mild, and impassive. ‘You don’t honestly think I can sleep.’ 

Sansa blushed and looked at her feet. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ 

He spoke very softly. ‘Don’t say anything, then.’ He still didn’t move his hands. ‘Will you let me –‘ His mouth sounded dry. ‘Sansa, I won’t ever hurt you again.’ 

Her heart plunged into her stomach. ‘I know,’ she said, her voice slight. 

*** 

The girl’s just going when I get back up, gives me a look like she’d put her legs round my waist for nothing. I’m caught at the door, not sure where to put myself, but Sansa bids me stay. 

I do everything too loud – yawning, crashing out on the bed. The air’s changed again. My bloody heart’s the loudest thing in the room. I close my eyes – gods, I am wearied, don’t have to pretend there – and hear her go over to the bowl on the table. Boots thud off. Water, like a lute playing. I have a look. 

Her back’s to me and she’s loosed her dress a little, shoulders glowing. Hells, she’s handspun, turning in a jeweller’s window. She looks at me and I’ve no time to shut my eyes again and drink her in instead, not caring that she’s caught me. I want so much to right it, make her feel as she should. 

I go over to her. 

*** 

Sansa felt a bloom of heat on her neck. Sandor cupped her jaw in his hands, tilted her face up with his thumbs and kissed her, tentatively, his hair falling into her eyes. 

He pulled back and hovered just above her, his breath on her mouth, his voice a half-whisper. ‘I thought you were bloody dead.’ 

‘I’m not dead,’ she said, just as quietly, her eyes closed. 

‘Ay.’ He kissed one corner of her mouth. ‘You’re the least dead girl I’ve ever seen.’ He kissed the other. 

He took the laces of her dress and continued where she had left off, working them through the eyeholes one by one, the bodice easing away from her ribs a little more. He slowly drew the shoulders of it downwards, Sansa wiggling her good arm out to free her other wrist. He moved the waistband further apart around her middle and knelt slightly to pull the dress down over her hips, a widening cage. Sansa stepped out of it. 

Kneeling properly, Sandor lifted up one of Sansa’s feet and tugged at her stocking from the toe. She wobbled and almost fell over, grabbing onto his shoulders with a yelp. He breathed a laugh through his nose and kept hold of it, kissing the top of her foot, the inside of her ankle, her knee, before putting it back down carefully. 

He unfastened her dagger belt from her other calf and placed it on the floor well away from them, looking up at her wryly. Sansa’s little bunched smile dissolved as he removed her other stocking and knelt up. Goosepimples had risen all over her skin. He gathered the hem of her smock in his hands and drew it up to kiss the front of her thigh. 

She could feel his beard and the rough parts of his burns. Sandor placed a kiss on her hipbone and at the middle of her stomach, and got to his feet, bringing the smock up with him, pulling it over her head and off her arms. He dropped it in a heap on the table and took her injured hand in one of his, bending down to put his lips on the inside of her elbow and at the front of her shoulder. Sansa felt like she had suddenly become lined in candlelight, tautened and glowing. She could hardly move. 

He stood back for a moment and tugged off his shirt. It was startling to see him, tanned hands and neck and very pale everywhere else, though still dark next to her. Pale shoulders, chest and stomach. And _scars_. He didn’t have the bandage around his shoulder anymore, and the skin had yellowed around a wound as long as her forefinger. There was long white scar on his side and a shorter one above part of his chest. His upper arms – there were old cuts there too - were thick-muscled, and his stomach and chest were dark with hair. She could see now properly where his burns disappeared at his jawline and some way under his ear. 

He looked self-conscious and she dared herself a little reassuring smile at him. The shadow lifted from Sandor’s face and he pulled her to him by the waist and kissed her again. She felt his tongue on the inside of her upper lip, and on her teeth, and opened her mouth a little more. She felt a sudden melting sensation and her knees slightly buckled. He broke off and took her by the hand, leading her to the bed. Sansa’s heart beat a little faster. He got her to lie down on her back and she knew that he could see her fear. 

Sandor shook his head quickly. ‘This is just –‘ he looked awkward. ‘For you.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom! Sexy cliffhanger!


	17. Chapter 17

There was once a girl I saw, a few times, early in Robert’s reign. When the boy was up to my knees, and not yet a vicious mad shit. Before then, I’d turn them over, get it done quick – they’d sooner not look at me, anyway. But she – Ysmay – had spark, not much afeared of anything, least of all me, and she’d tug me by the ears and push my head down and laugh like a bloody mad goat. She caught an ague, got boils, leaking, and was turned out of the whorehouse. I made sure she was buried, outside the walls, on the hill.

So I know how it goes. I kiss Sansa and she lets me and I help her with her dress. I’m kissing her feet, bringing her smock up. Her hipbone’s like the jut of a shield. Stomach, breasts, wrist. The inside of her elbow. She looks at my chest – my scars – like she’s deciding where to make an incision. 

I lie her down and she looks frightened, just a little. No, wolf-girl, this is what I should have done last time. 

***

He half-lay next to her, his fingers brushing her side very lightly, hipbone to ribs, and smoothed his palm flat on her upper belly. His hand slid slowly down over her stomach and between her thighs, and he stroked her, very gently, carefully pushing down her knees towards the bed with his other hand. He drew his fingers up and rolled his thumb around her tip. Down again. Back up. 

Sansa could feel that she was wettening his fingers every time he brought them inside of her. She lay very still, staring at the ceiling, wondering what she was supposed to do and feeling horribly nervous. She’d done this to herself before, of a sort, but it felt very different having someone else there. A small sensation flared, making her contract her stomach and gulp. 

Sandor glanced up at her from underneath his eyebrows. Pushing himself up by the elbow, he took her nearest thigh, pulling it wider apart. Suddenly his face was down between her legs. His tongue was there. Shae had told her about this, too. Sansa pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to suppress a grin. It felt slightly ridiculous and so incredibly uncouth. He was licking her, just a little, moving his tongue up and around her. She felt a tiny warm rush and shuddered slightly, her grin fading, and then re-appearing. Sandor slid a hand under her bottom. It was as if he was gathering all of her up. 

He moved his palm slightly so that his thumb was between her legs and sliding up into her, beneath his tongue. Sansa gave a yelp that turned into an uncontrolled giggle and then a broken little sigh. She wondered how she looked like to an outsider, stretched pale and prostrate on the bed with his face there, covered by his tangled hair all over the place. She wondered what her mother would think, then tried to put her face out of her mind, desperately trying to relax, and concentrate. 

The bedclothes were chafing her back. As he continued to lick her, little oozing throbs began to pulse gently, like an irregular heartbeat. Sansa’s mind was melting, a warm, muddy, mossy puddle. There was a sudden, piercingly tender surge, and a blissful prickle shivered across her thighs and spread to her knees and upwards over her belly. 

For a moment she didn’t breathe, her chin tipped upwards, before taking in a guttural rush of air. More short, shallow breaths, held, then exhaled loudly. Sandor watched her, then leant up, unshyly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her. He tasted milky, and sour. Sansa brought her knee up. It began trembling violently. 

He put a palm on it and eyed her, gently amused. ‘Are you alright, wolf-girl?’ 

She gulped and nodded. He scrunched right beside her on the bed, an arm under her neck. She hooked her leg over his and listened to her heart, a horse galloping away from her.

There was a thump. ‘Supper!’ came the raw, scrubbed voice of the inn girl. 

Sandor glanced up at the door, lazily. ‘I’d forgotten about that.’ 

Neither of them moved. Sansa’s head was buzzing. She felt completely blank, levelled out. The door was thumped again. They heard her huffily sigh, ‘I’ll leave it outside’, and her footsteps became distant. 

Sandor untangled himself, flexing his back, and unbolted the door, bringing in a wooden tray with two bowls and a hunk of bread on it. He put it down near the bed and dragged the small table over. He was about to move the bowl of water and the jug when he looked over at Sansa, a quick thought seeming to come. He picked up the rag, soaked it, and began gently pressing it between her legs. Sansa squirmed, her cheeks reddening, and tried subtly to wriggle up the bed. 

He raised his eyebrows at her, wryly amused. ‘You’re embarrassed _now_?’ 

‘I -’ She stopped moving and let him continue. 

He delicately wiped her, and she remembered again being on the bridge being shown her father’s head, and him dabbing at her mouth.

***

Gods. She warms my fingers, feels like a mudpool. I put my mouth on her cunt and she tastes of cream and the sea and I lap her like a cat and she’s so quiet and I think I’ll do this all night if I have to, I’m going to get you there, and after a time she starts to stiffen here and there, just a little.

She’s better than any ambers.

And there she is, and she’s spent, and her leg’s going like the clappers, cheeks the colour of an apple in midsummer.

I gather her up to me. My cock’s raging in my breeches, but he’s going nowhere. I put my nose to the sweat on her neck. Smells like sageherb.

***

They ate on the bed by growingly dim candlelight, Sansa sitting at the foot with a blanket tugged up around her waist. She balanced the bowl of pork and suet broth between her knees and leant over it, attempting to eat delicately, but slightly ruining the effect by dropping breadcrumbs everywhere. She felt completely brazen. Sandor was sitting at the other end of the bed, leaning against the wall, never taking his eyes off her. 

She glanced at him with a mouthful of broth, then ducked her eyes down to her bowl. ‘It’s a bit hard to eat when you’re _looking_ at me all the time.’

‘You seem to be managing alright,’ he said, smiling lazily, and slyly. ‘You eat like a wolf.’ 

‘I _am_ a wolf. A hungry one. It’s your fault for not feeding me enough.’ 

He threw a chunk of bread at her. She picked it up from the blanket and dunked it in her broth, then chomped it quickly and triumphantly. He’d never looked so at ease, his legs crossed over at her feet, still sitting there with his shirt off. He looked so – _happy_. 

‘Before -’ She wondered how on earth you talked about what he’d done with her in decorous terms. 

‘Before what?’ 

She could see that he knew exactly what she meant. ‘Before that – what you were – doing to me. Have you - done that to lots of women?’ 

He stopped chewing. And started again. ‘Sansa, don’t ask me things like that.’ 

‘Why not?’ She knew he hated it, but she couldn’t help teasing him, just a little. 

‘I don’t ask you.’ 

‘You know very well I haven’t. That’s different. I’m just – curious.’ 

He sighed at her benevolently and shook his head, a mixture of exasperation and crippling embarrassment. ‘Look, you know I’ve had women. But you wouldn’t want to know what - sort of women, not really. Women don’t – they take one look at - there aren’t many girls like you.’ 

She’d lost her goading look as he’d spoken and finished eating in humble, thoughtful silence.

After their food, and Sansa making him stand outside the door while she used the chamber pot, they squashed on the bed together. She lay on her stomach right next to him with her face on his arm, the blanket pulled up to her thighs, beginning to feel incredibly tired. Her good arm was tucked underneath her chest, her bound hand sticking out vertically at the elbow in between them. 

He watched her as her eyelids started to grow heavy. ‘You look like a bloody – I don’t know. Not real.’ 

‘I am real,’ she said, her eyes closed. 

There was a long silence. ‘You’re the first person to really talk to me. To my face.’ He exhaled. ‘For a long time, anyway.’ 

‘I like talking to you.’ She could feel herself drifting away towards sleep, an untethered boat. 

‘I won’t leave you again. Not until you’re home.’

She didn’t open her eyes. ‘I know.’ Her voice sounded distant. She thought she heard him say something else but the words became foggy and indistinct, floating away. Wolves and horses, girls and snow. 

***

She’s sitting there, naked to the waist, gobbling her food and I think, she’s like a whole bloody Southron pantry. Cake and ale and almonds, sweet onion and honey. She’s digging again, about me and my bloody amazing conquests with women, but I’m having none of it.

Later, she’s laid out, squashed up next to me, eyes drooping. That curve of her arse - I swear I could scrunch her up and bake her in an oven. I tell her that I saw a dire-wolf once, when I was a boy, up to my knees in snow, and it was there, eyes stripping me to my core. I just stood there, and it took some steps closer, and I could see its breath, and then it sniffed the air and was gone. My father got the horses out, searched the woods for three days. He said I’d been lying, wanting a story to scare the girls with. 

_Was it you I saw, Sansa_? I ask her, but she’s fallen asleep, her shoulder blades pulling apart like wings.

***

Sansa woke up to hear him using the chamber pot, loudly, and emptying it out of the window. He eased back into bed behind her, clearly trying not to disturb her, tucking one arm underneath her head and the other in between her folded arms at her breasts, gripping her elbow. He sighed drowsily into her shoulder. 

He was right. She didn’t feel real. They were a story, an illustration in a book. She couldn’t ever have imagined that this would feel so warm, and safe. With _him_. She lay still, feeling the prickle of his beard against her back, and turned her head round to him, her back still couched in his chest.

Sandor looked at her dozily, cupped her jaw in his palm and slid his thumb a little into her mouth. She bit down on it, first gently, then a little harder, clinging onto it with her teeth as he tried to pull it out and turning her body round to face him. She released him. 

‘Ow.’ He smiled, furrowing his eyebrows. ‘You’re dangerous.’ 

‘No, I’m not.’ 

‘Ay. You are. You tried to kick me out of bed three times.’ 

She tipped her chin, gleefully bashful. ‘I don’t remember.’ 

He grinned lazily and pulled her on top of him, rolling onto his back. Her crotch was on his hipbone, a leg between both of his. She kissed him, drew back and put her fingers on his burnt eyebrow, where the skin looked molten, as if it was dripping down over his eye. She could feel him against her hip, hard under his breeches. She lightly moved her hand up to his skull, clumps of hair on angrily reddish skin. 

‘You don’t have to touch that, you know,’ he said, his voice a little distant. 

‘I like this side.’ She continued to explore it, not looking at him. 

His eyes were on hers. ‘I don’t deserve this, the Gods know it.’ 

‘Don’t say that.’ There was a sound from her stomach. 

He looked at her, mock-frightened. ‘What – was _that_?’ 

She squirmed and tried to whack him but he gripped her forearm tightly. He pushed his hips against her, holding her leg down with his calf, and released her, stretching and rueful. 

‘You’re always hungry,’ he said, grinning, and lifted her off him, getting out of bed. He slung on his shirt and pulled on his boots. ‘I’ll get us some food. Bolt the door.’

***

She’s a little animal in the night, all knees and elbows as she dreams. I’m too big to be in this bed with her but the Others couldn’t drag me out. It’s the sort of thing I’d never let myself imagine, before. 

The early morning, too. There’s a light like wheat-ale and I fold her all up into me. She puts her fingers on my burns, like I’m a twisting journey on a map she’s tracing. Gods, I want to fuck her there and then, but it’s too soon. I daredn’t.

I head down to fetch food - she’s got a hunger on her for a girl the width of a silver bloody birch. Her stomach starts riots. I swear she’d have my fingers off if I didn’t –

On your guard. Freys are up early, sour heads by the looks of it, though brave smiles all round, like they’ve come out of battle unwounded. I hang at the kitchen door – no one’s about – and sit, the furthest table away, thinking how I might get the measure of them. 

And then I hear it. 

A howl, dead quiet, from one of them. The hairs on the back of my neck stand like spearmen. 

The other two laugh and the howler says, _two little snappers down, then_. 

_I’d never have thought it_ , says another. 

_Well, when the big wolves are away_ , he says. _Shouldn’t have left a cripple and a kneehigh in charge of the North, should they_? 

_So the Greyjoy boy turned then_? one asks. 

_Must’ve, mustn’t he_? he says. _Been brewing all those years under Ned Stark’s thumb. Burnt them to a crisp, it’s said. Once an Ironborn, always an Iron – she’s still standing, is she_? he says suddenly to me as I’m getting up. 

_Ay, just about_ , I say, turning away, cool as I can. 

One of them stretches, says, _Gods, I need a piss_.

***

Sansa did as she was bid and then crawled back into bed, pulling the blankets over herself, shivering and listening to her stomach growl again. She lay looking at the cracks in the wall next to her head, imagining them as the feathering rivers of Westeros. The Red Fork could be _there_ , she thought, running her finger along the tiny fissure as it splintered outwards.

There was a short tap on the door. She couldn’t help a grin coming and bounded up, naked, unbolting the door. Sandor was standing there, empty-handed. 

She folded her arms, enjoying her shamelessness. ‘You promised. I want to break my fast. I demand that you go back down and get me something to eat.’ Her voice trailed off as he pushed her back into the room, bolted the door and turned back to her. 

He was looking down at her with an expression of worry and something more hard-bitten. ‘Get dressed.’ Sansa looked up at him, puzzled and suddenly fearful. ‘We need to go,' he said. 'Now.'

She blushed and silently found her clothes, feeling a fool, and quietly slid herself into her smock as Sandor fixed on his armour. She stepped into her dress and straightened, fumbling at her laces. Sandor took a step up to her and helped her, not looking at her. 

‘What is it?’ she whispered. 

‘Once we’re away,’ he said, picking up her cloak. His eyes were almost black.

***

I get her out of there as quick as I can, the men out of sight, thank fuck, though their coursers are still outside – and now we’re riding, west for now. I don’t know where to. We can’t go north now, not to Winterfell, any road. Each footfall of Stranger’s feels like it’s in the wrong direction. But every direction will be the wrong one.

How do I tell her? Her shoulders are higher than they have been and she’s not saying a word – she knows something’s up. 

Fuck. I’m about to break her bloody heart.


	18. Chapter 18

The day was still breaking, an unassertive, chilled sun hanging low and a ghost of a moon still in the sky. After a league or two’s riding, Sandor slowed Stranger up next to a field of groundsel and long-spiked, purplish flowers, and helped her down.

Sansa stood, looking up at him, and waiting. She didn’t understand. He didn’t look too dishevelled. There was no blood on him. 

‘Did you - kill them?’ she asked, tentatively. 

Sandor put his hands on her cheeks. ‘That would have been quick work, even for me.’ He didn’t say it with his customary slyness. He looked troubled and couldn’t quite make eye contact with her. 

‘Just tell me.’ She steeled herself. 

He took a breath in and held it for a moment, letting go of her face and letting his arms hang down, as if defeated. ‘Your brothers.’

Sansa’s heart pitched. Robb. She tried to picture him lying in a battlefield, an axe in his stomach, but could only see him at home, laughing hysterically as Arya hung onto Bran’s back and the two of them fell backwards into the mud. But - he’d said ‘brothers’. Jon was so far north, at the Wall. Had they joined forces, somehow? 

Sandor continued, ‘I heard them talking. The Frey men. I don’t think they’re friends of your family’s, Sansa.’ He paused, looking at her apprehensively, as if she might hit him. ‘Winterfell’s been sacked.’ 

‘Winterfell?’ she said, not comprehending. ‘It can’t have been -' Oh Gods. Bran and Rickon. She went cold. ‘What’s happened to them? Where are they?’ She could see from his expression what was coming. She backed away, into Stranger, who crossly harrumphed. ‘Are they – are they -’ 

Sandor swallowed, his eyes falling to the ground, before looking at her again steadfastly. He nodded.

It couldn’t be. They were supposed to be safe up there. Bran. Rickon. Sansa pushed past him, stumbling slightly, and threw up. She stood, hunched over, clutching her stomach, looking at her vomit on the ground, hanging on those violet-blue flowers. She could hear him fumbling with something behind her. Her brothers. 

His hand was on her back, and a waterskin under her nose. She straightened to drink from it, but could only manage a sip before she retched again. Bran. She began to shiver, violently, her nose running. He was at her feet, rinsing the vomit off her boots, pouring a little into his hands and smoothing it in the ends of hair. Rickon. She suddenly took in a huge, shuddering breath, the nausea still high in her throat, and sat down, pulling her knees up and resting her head there. 

Sandor was there beside her, facing the same way, waiting. 

Sansa began to cry.

***

She’s sick, onto her boots. She’s gone so pale I could put my hands right through her. And she cries, of course she does. Her brothers are dead. 

I see Fira again, reciting rhymes and stamping in the mud. Her wet hair clinging to her like grass snakes. Me shouting at the maids as they cleared her room. You don’t get over that. Might push it down, deep into your gut, pack it underneath fights and orders and a whole load of bloody wine, but it never takes much for it to come scratching back up, raw as it ever was. And now she’s got all that to come.

***

They sat for some time. Sansa suddenly put up her head and Sandor, who had been staring into the space in front of them, looked at her patiently. ‘Mother?’ she asked.

‘They didn’t say. I don’t think she’s there.’ 

A crow’s laugh rattled in its throat. She tilted her head to look up in the direction of the sound. Her skull felt like it was stretched over a rack. ‘I’ll kill them.’ 

‘Who?’ he asked, quietly. 

‘The Lannisters.’ 

He shook his head. ‘Not the Lannisters.’ She looked at him, red-eyed and weary. ‘Theon Greyjoy.’

Theon. Sansa saw him, his sly eyes, often narrowing as they roamed over a serving-girl’s chest, or eagerly bright as he tried to impress her father, or, a bit meanly, at her. He was like a brother to Robb and Jon. He would put Rickon on his back and stagger around as if he weighed as much as Hodor. It didn’t make sense. Theon couldn’t kill them. 

‘Sansa. We need to decide what to do. There’s no point in going – we can’t go north. I need to know where to take you.’ 

She was too tired to even think about it. Her home was gone. She felt like that old yew tree they had slept in, scraped out, soulless. She really wanted her mother. 

He could see that she wasn’t going to answer him and continued, softly. ‘We should maybe head to Riverrun. Your brother’s army is in the Riverlands somewhere, your mother too, most like.’ 

She nodded. 

‘Come on, then,’ Sandor said, rising. He stood over her. She couldn’t move. He leant down and gathered her up, and, his arm around her waist, walked her back to Stranger.

***

Sansa hardly speaks for the rest of the day and the night, just hanging onto me like I’m a branch over a cliff-edge, side-saddle. Her head’s as hot as if it’s been branded. 

I try and make her eat something, but her appetite’s gone the same way as her smiles, her brightness. She looks at the bit of bread I hold in front of her like it’s a book in a foreign tongue.

I can feel her thoughts draining out of her. Bloodless. 

***

All she could think of was them. Rickon, always bedraggled no matter how many times his hair was combed, as untamed as Shaggydog, climbing under Sansa’s bedcovers and biting her ankles until she kicked him and almost broke his nose. Bran, daydreaming of being a knight and pretending to rescue girls when he thought no one was looking, making heartfelt speeches to silver birch trees. And it made her think of Arya too, her awkward limbs and flyaway hair, the way she folded her arms and screwed her nose up enviously at the boys as they trained with swords under Ser Rodik’s beady eye. What had Theon done to them? 

She looked up at him for the first time that day. ‘How were they killed?’ 

He glanced at her, before averting his eyes to the path. ‘Don’t ask me that, Sansa.’ 

Then she knew it was bad, more horrible than she’d dared consider. He would never lie to her. She saw her father’s neck split under the axe.

***

It’s like I’ve bad wine sloshing around in my gut. 

We’re heading into the bloody Young Wolf’s jaws. Having to ride through a load of bloody North-pledging bannermen, who’ll not be taking kindly to me. Well, that’s my part in all this, just a fucking carthorse, delivering her to them and then – Gods, if they don’t bloody string me up first – fucking the hells off. 

I put my nose in her hair, thinking, I’ll not have her smell of pines and maples much longer, my heart like a millstone.

***

Sandor set up their camp in a copse carpeted with thick, springy moss and lichen. The air was colder than ever. Sandor made her eat a cabbage and apple stew, straight from the pot. Her stomach turned but she did as she was bid, each swallow an effort. She saw Bran spitting out his cabbage back into the soup bowl until Mother clouted him, and gave the pot back to Sandor. He swaddled her up in a blanket and wrapped himself around her. Sansa nosed into his chest, whimpering. She wanted her mother. She never wanted to face anyone. 

In the night, she woke up, numb, her nose like ice. They were lying on their sides, facing each other. 

‘They’re dead,’ she said. Her voice was small, broken. 

He put his fingers in her hair and drew them through it. ‘I know.’ 

She was lying in her own cold grave. ‘I want to die.’ 

‘No, you don’t.’ 

He continued stroking her hair. He was so warm. She would huddle there until the next summer, a rabbit in a burrow. Hibernating.

***

The next day, the paths were more open, and there was a small camp in the distance. A thin plume of smoke merged with the low, slate grey clouds. Four men.

They drew a little nearer, and then Sandor slid off Stranger and made her focus on him. ‘Wait here.’ 

Sansa didn’t really care if they were friends or enemies, not any more. She watched Sandor walk over to them, almost sauntering, knowing that his fingers were itching to close around the handle of his longsword. Two of the men stood up, their hands moving to their blades. She waited for him to kill them all, but Sandor didn’t seem to react. His shoulders were relaxed, and he walked right up to them, the others craning their necks from where they sat. They seemed to be talking. One of the seated men pointed in the direction of the far hills, patterned with scrubby, dark green patches, like rotting brocade. 

Sandor was strolling back to her, the men all watching him, and looking past him to her.

***

There’s no hiding from them, so I think fuck it, let’s find out what’s happening. I’ll take them all if I have to.

I leave Sansa with Stranger and stalk over to them. Orange sigil, bull moose. Hornwoods. A pot over a fire, smoking. _It’s the Hound_ , whispers one, not quietly enough, and their hands go to their hilts. 

_Ay, it is_ , I say, still walking, _and I could kill you all right now, but I’m not looking for trouble. I’ve got Sansa Stark with me, I’m looking to get her to your Young Wolf_. They frown, look over my shoulder. 

_She’s at King’s Landing, isn’t she_? says one. 

_I got her out of there before they killed her_ , I say. 

_It's true she's a redhead_ , says one to the others, out of the side of his mouth. 

_How do we know you’re not kidnapping her, keeping her for yourself_? another says. 

I can’t help snorting. _If I was doing that, you think I’d be up here risking my fucking neck and not with her legs wrapped around me in Braavos? Where’s your man_? They’re mute. _Look, you can fucking tail us if you have to_ , I say, impatient. 

They glance at each other. _We can’t_ , says one to the rest of them, under his breath. _We’ve got to get back up for the funeral. He’s a day west_ , says another, jerking his neck. _Follow the river_. 

I say my thanks, and walk back to Sansa, imagining her legs wrapped around me in Braavos, expecting arrows in my neck, but none come. Tired of fighting a war that has no good end for them, maybe. 

***

A day away. 

She was almost there. Sansa couldn’t quite picture her brother. The Young Wolf. He was now a leader. He’d brought their father’s bannermen together, and commanded all those men. She could see them pouring over the countryside, forming and diverging and re-forming like ants. He’d outwitted the Lannisters more than once. She’d been so far from her family for so long, that the idea of being a Stark again was a strange, foreign thing. 

And she realised what it meant. That he would be leaving her. 

***

Her eyes are like jewels that need scrubbing. She looks so bloody tired, shoulders tucked into herself like a crone’s. She all but disappears into me as we ride on, the far river on our right, a hard glint on it like a miser’s eye.

My time with her’s short now. I want to bundle her under some blankets and smuggle her over the sea, anywhere, away from here. Squirrel away into the earth where no one knows her but me. But that’s not my place. Not hers. Never will be, however much I want it.

***

They had ridden through patchy fields barbed with thistles and climbed the first hills only to find more, stretching away in front of them. And now the light was leaching from the sky, a gloomy, bruised purple. There was a scattering of dim white shapes in the distance.

It was a set of three farms, the paths churned with festering mud. The stench made her nose wrinkle and she coughed. As they neared the first, an elderly woman in an apron and bonnet came out, leaning on a stick, and wrapping a shawl around her. 

She peered towards them. ‘There isn’t much to steal here. I’d say you’d best try the next one along.’ Her voice was feistily proud for such a frail-looking woman. 

‘Do you have a room we might use for the night?’ Sandor asked. ‘We’ll pay.’ 

Sansa had never heard him speak so politely. It almost made her smile. 

The woman took a step nearer to them, her eyes cloudy, her neck cricked as if listening very intently. ‘How many are you then?’ Stranger took a squelching step and she jerked back slightly. 

‘We’re two.’ 

‘Men?’

‘Myself and a lady.’ 

She pursed her mouth, as if considering. ‘I’ve a room. It’ll not come cheap though. I’m not in the business of taking in travellers.’

After using her fingers to examine the coins that Sandor had placed in her palm, turning them over and running her nail along the raised metal, the woman had shown them to a room. They’d passed an open door and glimpsed an old man, papery skin and very thin arms, lying on his back, unmoving. He had been staring up the ceiling, his toothless mouth agape. Their room was bare but for a small bed against one wall. 

‘My daughter’s room,’ the woman had said, fingering the door frame. ‘She’s dead.’ 

She had bid them come to the kitchen for some warmth, and served them half-bowls of a watery broth, potatoes and chives. She had softened when she heard Sansa speak, sitting up slightly straighter and becoming garrulous. She had talked and talked, about her children, and their farm. She hadn’t seemed to know much, or care about, the changing kings. Her world was the rains that fell for months, and the grandchildren and their fortunes in smithyards or taverns. 

Sansa had listened very earnestly and asked questions. Sandor was sitting on a chair far too small for him, leaning it against the wall on its back legs, and had watched Sansa the whole time. The woman began to relate all the winters she’d seen, and how she didn’t think she and her husband would see the next one through. She said it quite cheerily, and Sansa bit her lip then, trying not to grin, and glanced at Sandor. 

He gave her a watchful, slow smile, and held her gaze for some moments, before gradually tilting his head forward and pretending to go to sleep. Sansa glared at him and gave her attention back to the woman, who’d already gone onto the summers, and the crops they’d had in some of those golden seasons, and the names of all the horses who had pulled the plough, before her speech started to slow and she stopped, mid-sentence, her chin tipping upwards, her mouth ajar. 

***

The farm’s the saddest place I’ve ever seen. Smells like death. The woman knows her way round with her fingers well enough, and talks her own damned jaw off. I’m watching Sansa listen to her, back as straight as a young willow. She catches my eye and I make to nod asleep and she almost smiles. Gods, I’d do almost any fool thing just to see her face turn into a sunrise again, just once before I leave her. 

Old woman talks herself to sleep – stops halfway through a word – and I have her to myself again. One more night. My bones click like falling pebbles as I get up, stretch, light a candle from the hearth, and take her to our room. 

The fire gives a loud, last wolf-snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Quite a bleak chapter... my apologies (well, sort of)!


	19. Chapter 19

Sandor put the candle down on the floor near the bed. Their breath came in clouds as they faced each other. Wordlessly, Sansa moved her hands up to his shoulder-armour, and he looked surprised, but showed her, without really talking, how to remove it, and his mailshirt. He helped her out of her dress, and she took off her smock before he could begin help with her it. She didn’t care anymore. Not about how she looked, or what her mother would think. 

She stood there, naked and shivering. Sandor went to take her to the bed, but she stopped him by tugging the material of his shirt at his stomach until it freed from his waistband. She put her hand underneath it at his back, touching the warm skin, and he flinched. 

‘ _Gods_.’ He tried to stay still as she stroked the base of his back. ‘You’re as cold as a white walker.’ She put both of her hands there, and slid them up to his shoulder blades. He pulled a face, a mixture of a grimace and a smile. ‘And as bloody cruel.’ 

Sansa smiled faintly and pulled his shirt over his shoulders, and he helped it over his head and stood there, trying to read her face, stroking her upper arm with his middle finger. She put her hands at the band of his breeches, where his waist curved into his hip, and began to draw it down, gently. 

‘Sansa.’ He was slightly hesitant. She looked up at him, her fingers still there. She was hollow. She just wanted him.

Sandor helped her take them off, and shifted under her wide eyes. She could do nothing but look at him, _there_ , sticking out at an angle, and tried to smother a smile. 

***

The room’s bloody freezing, and there’s a stench of shit and hay seeping through the walls. I’d happily just hold onto her all night long like a bloody sea barnacle, but Sansa’s a step ahead, her fingers pulling at my breeches. 

Not sure what she wants. I’m not going to bed her if it’s going to make her cry. But there’s a look in her eyes – determined, but far away, too. And then we’re both naked as newborns, and she’s staring at my cock, eyes big as serving plates, with just a whisper of a grin. 

***

He raised his eyebrows at her. ‘Are you laughing at me?’ She bit her lip, shaking her head. He put his palms up, blameless. ‘I can’t do anything about it. Not when you’re bloody standing there like that.’ 

Sandor put his hands on her shoulders and walked her to the bed, sliding in after her under blankets so chilled that they made her shudder. He worked an arm underneath her ribcage and pulled her to him, tightly, and she felt him hard against the base of her back. He wasn’t making any advances, though - it was if he was just hanging onto her for dear life. Sansa could feel his apprehension. 

Her toes were growing numb. She wriggled round to face Sandor. He looked haunted, his face half in shadow. She put her finger at his collarbone, and down his breastplate through his chest hair, past the scar on his side, and to the hair at his belly. When she smoothed the back of her hand over his stomach, he breathed in sharply and drew it in, leaving a space. She placed her forefinger on a mole on his upper arm muscle and traced it with her nail to another, and another, as if her finger were a quill. It left pale white lines on his skin, a strange diagram. 

***

Her fingers on me are like a maester’s and a child’s and a whore’s all at once. She could turn me any which way and I’d do her bidding right now, I swear it. She scratches me, light, but enough to leave marks, and I watch the lines appear, like the journey we’ve taken - long, wandering paths – and imagine new ones, over and off me, over a sea that’s made of bedclothes, onto new lands neither of us have ever seen.

She shivers suddenly, violently, a fever-shiver, all the way down to her feet, and I wonder if she’s thinking about that too, the Narrow Sea, a fresh start. _It’s freezing_ , she says in a whisper.

My mind’s gone blank, smoothed out like mortar, and her words fire me up again. Only one way to sort that. I grab her thigh, push her over onto her back. _Right then_ , I say.

***

Sandor straddled one of her legs and scooped her up towards him to kiss her, deeply. Sansa clung onto his neck and whimpered slightly into his mouth. She felt like she was going to cry. He was balancing the whole of her upper body on one hand and as he kissed her, he gradually began lowering her back down onto the bed, leaning over her, kissing her neck, her breasts, kissing their sides, kisses like flakes of snow, putting his mouth over her nipple and gently biting it. 

As he moved his face down her body, the blankets went with him and she lay, utterly chilled. She was an ice queen, ancient, before the First Men, before the Children of the Forest, some strange northern ghost-maiden with no soul. 

His fingers and warm mouth went between her legs and she put her hand to her face and bit on the side of her forefinger, hard, not being able to stop a smile. He began to explore her with a finger, just a little, and use his tongue. 

The candle flame was making great shadows on the wall, crones and spirits. Sansa clamped her thighs around Sandor’s ears, then quickly released them, embarrassed, thinking she’d be squashing him. How could he _breathe_ down there anyway? He looked up, kissed her on the inside of her thigh, and continued, gently pressing her leg up to his ear again. She listened to her halting exhalations, as if something was tumbling down a staircase. He slid a finger, or maybe more than one, deeper into her and she heard herself make a strange, little animal noise. She felt a rush of warmth, and tilted her hips downwards. 

Distant bursts of sweetness. She arched her neck and opened her mouth to gasp, then thought of the old man next door and promptly shut it again. Sansa wanted that feeling she’d had before to come again, and soon. It seemed far-off still, but then he moved his tongue slightly higher and she had a sensation almost like a pain, and put her palm out on the mattress. She was still freezing, goosebumped, everywhere but there. Sansa wondered how long he could keep doing that for, and whether he minded too much. He was making a guttural sound like he was drowning. She could smell that putrid farm-stench. 

She felt another small surge and widened her leg, and then suddenly all she could think about was that feeling, which was getting closer, she thought, and then not, and then closer, and definitely closer, and _there_. It was more sudden than last time, and she gave a sort of shout and grabbed Sandor’s head to quickly move his mouth away afterwards. She held him there, her hands at his cheeks, hovering just above her. She felt like she was molten, all over.

***

All that smooth candlewax of her, all that bloody honeycomb. I lick her cunt again, add thumbs and fingers, thinking of her mouth on my cock, and of me in her, and of her laid out on a feasting table, all mine. I can hear her breathing like she’s climbing the Eyrie, step by step, and she shuts her thighs over my ears and opens them again, and finally she grabs hold of my head, shudders, sudden, bids me stop. 

***

Sansa let him go and flung herself back on the bed. Sandor kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, and brought himself up towards her, kissing her stomach and between her breasts. She could feel him hanging there, against the top of her hip, and shifted herself up on her good elbow to touch him. Sandor gave a strange sort of shudder and made a rough sound in his throat. She reached down put her fingers around him very gently, not really sure what she should be doing, and tried to look down. 

‘Look at me.’ He tipped her chin up, and stared at her earnestly, as though he was trying to make her really listen, and really believe him. ‘It hurts, you tell me.’ 

Sansa thought of that last night at King’s Landing, and how close his face had been to her then, and how afraid she’d been. She nodded.

Sandor drew back, his knees pressing into her thighs, and used his hand to guide himself into her. Sansa tried desperately to relax, and be calm. He pushed himself into her, just a little, and then withdrew, not quite all the way. He stroked her stomach, looking carefully at her, as if bracing himself to leap away at any moment. 

He moved in again, a little more, and she could feel him against her, like cave walls expanding, and then she couldn’t tell what it felt like. Liquidy, and dangerous, and so intimate that she couldn’t quite believe that he was doing this to her and that they were so close. She lifted her hips up to him slightly, and she saw a tremor pass through him, though he tried to quell it. She didn’t have that flash of pain this time. It felt strange, and it still hurt, but nothing like before. 

Sandor had a hand at her hipbone and the other under her buttock, and she moved into his palm. With a weighted sigh, he lowered his torso towards her, an elbow by her side, sliding in deeper. Sansa had a different, hazier sensation of pleasure as he did so, and exhaled sharply. He glanced at her, almost surprised, and put a hand under her hair. His hips moved against hers, more constantly. 

There was a slick sound that seemed very loud in the quiet house, and the legs of the bed were shifting against the stone. Then Sandor was kissing her, and making a noise that was a breath and a sigh and a grunt every time he breathed out, and she could feel a vague, kneading feeling low in her belly that was like ink being blotted. His shoulder wound was at her cheek. He moved faster, tightening his fingers around the back of her neck, and suddenly seemed to freeze, his body crushed tight against her, gripping her all over. 

He lay still, and still inside her, for some moments, as if lost in thought. 

She touched his face, and he looked up at her. ‘You’re – I’m a bit squashed.’

He gave a muffled, apologetic response and slid out of her and onto his side, his hand slung across her ribs, his leg over hers. She could feel the prickle of sweat from him. She looked down at him, feeling tall. Older. 

His head was resting on her shoulder and he raised his eyes, deep lines forming on his forehead. ‘You –‘ Sandor didn’t finish. He just stared up at her and spread some of her hair out on the pillow. 

***

She’s as slippery as a whelk, and so bloody beautiful, and she’s reaching for my cock and her fingers are like the sting of a nettle, or like the burn of fire, the only fire I’ll ever let touch me, and I think, it’s alright for me to – and I go in, Gods, as gentle as I can bear to, not too much, watching her, watching her, and she’s alright I think, and then she makes a little sigh and I lean to her and into her and her cunt’s gripping me and fuck, she’s everything I ever wanted, and I could drink goblets and goblets of her. Her heel’s at the back of my knee and I think, I could be putting a babe in her right now, and I think, I don’t care, and I think, it will never be this good again. 

I crash out at her shoulder, thinking, you’ll always be mine, in here.

***

Sansa watched the shadows, now dark grey on black. Sandor began to make almost imperceptible, jerking movements. There was a little spasm in his thigh, and one in his upper arm. A sudden puff of breath burned her shoulder. Maybe he was part-dragon, she thought, grinning a little. It was better than being a dog. It seemed ridiculous to her that he had called himself the Hound. He was the bravest man she’d ever met. One who never lied and who understood her. She wanted so much to be with her family, but the thought of what lay ahead the next day filled her with something nearing dread. 

It couldn’t have been much later when Sansa woke again. The candle must have been nothing more than a stub, emitting the merest glimmer of light, a dull, low glow. She listened to their inbreaths and outbreaths crossing, as if trying to reach for each other’s hands, and just missing. As she put her hand on his chest, he shifted, swallowing dryly, and looked down at her. 

‘I don’t want you to leave,’ she said. He didn’t say anything. ‘You promised you wouldn’t.’ She knew how he’d answer. 

‘Until I got you home.’ She could feel the words resonating in his chest. ‘To your family.’ 

Sansa took a big, cheerless breath in. ‘Can’t you stay?’ 

He touched her ear. ‘And do what? Be your manservant?’ 

She took his hand off and held it. ‘Can’t you – serve Robb?’ 

He gently rubbed her middle knuckle with his thumb, the tiniest movement. ‘I’m done serving, Sansa.’ 

‘Don’t you care about me?’ It came out in a tightly forlorn whisper. She sounded like a child. He stopped moving his thumb. She wanted him to curse, shout, drag her outside and wheel her around in the mud. ‘Not talking is not the same as telling the truth,’ she said in sudden frustration. 

‘Don’t,’ he said, very quietly. 

Sansa understood exactly what he was doing, and what he meant. She couldn’t bear it. She had to tell him, tell him what she was only just realising herself. ‘Sandor, I –‘ She hesitated, tears coming. 

‘Don’t,’ he said again under his breath, almost dangerously. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, furious at the tears, trying to banish them. 

He spoke more gently then. ‘You’ll have some flaxen-haired prince from the Summer Isles soon enough who’s noble and honest and brave and all the things in those old songs of yours.’ 

‘I hate those songs.’ She turned her back to him.

***

She wakes me, curled up at my stomach, knees tucked in. She starts saying all the things I want her to say and never want to hear her say. I have to stop her, before she says - what I think she’s going to say. Oh Gods, Sansa. 

I tell her, as I’ve told her before, of the high lord she’ll have someday at her side, and she turns her back to me, and I think of putting my boot in that fucking lord’s face.

***

Sandor was wearing thick furs, looking as fierce as a black bear, and stood up to his calves in snow. His lips were almost blue, his hair whipping in front of his face. The wind became a black shadow, and the shadow became Joffrey, as tall as him, taller even. And then his fist was in Sandor’s stomach, and he brought it back, pulling out his sword, which dripped, green and glowing.

***

She’s on her side, her bandaged hand sticking out like a gull with a broken wing. The morning’s put a dusty gleam on her. She’s sanded from damned chalk. How can she – want me? It’s like she’s gently bashing her head against my chest and I have to turn her round, set her off, away from me.

I swear she’s leached all the heat from me in the night. I get up, out of that swaddling, thinking, I’ll never be that warm again. The door down the hall’s ajar - the woman’s holding a spoon to the old man’s mouth. Death’s got a leg over him already, I reckon. She’s got oats and milk curdling over the fire, and I grab a woodspoon, steal some. 

_I may be blind but my ears are sharp as a new knife_ , she says, suddenly behind me. 

_Alright, alright, woman_ , I say, _can I have some if I ask nicely_. 

_Ay_ , she says, pinchgrinning, _and there’s some for your young lass too_. 

Course – she can’t see my burns. That’s why she talks to me like I’m – just any other man. Even Sansa didn’t, first off. She bids me sit and eat, starts tumbling out stories of her children again, her brothers, sisters, her whole bloody family tree, and I’m looking at my bowl, my insides clotting up like the oatmeal at the thought of Sansa never being my young lass.

***

Sansa woke up with an aching neck. It was light. Stranger harrumphed, distantly. The old woman shouted something and she heard Sandor indistinctly reply, an assured mumble. The heat was still pressed into the bedclothes where Sandor had been lying. She put the covers over her head and huddled into it, an airless cave, smelling the warmth and sweat of him, wondering how long she could stay there before coming up for breath.

After a while, he came into the room, and knelt beside the bed, his hand on the covers near her. 

‘Sansa.’ She wasn’t fooling him. He knew she was awake. ‘She’s made you oatmeal.’ Sansa didn’t move. ‘You have to get up.’ She tried not to breathe, though her throat was beginning to grow tight. ‘Sansa.’ 

‘I don’t want to,’ she said in a tiny voice from under the bedclothes. 

He put his hand on her head. ‘You don’t want to stay here. She’s started on her brothers and sisters now. Your ears will fall off.’ She nosed herself up through the covers, enough to blink, mole-like, out at him, and clutched the edge of a blanket. He was right there, dark beard and the corners of his mouth twitching. He looked at her so gently that she wanted to cry. He touched her nose. ‘You don’t want me around.’ 

‘I do.’

He snatched up her hand and made her look at him. ‘I’ve done horrible things, Sansa. I’m going to go on doing horrible things.’ 

‘Why? Why do you have to?’ 

He shrugged, looking at her thoughtfully. ‘It’s what I’ve always done.’ 

‘Just – kill people who deserve it,’ she flung at him in a hopeless, impatient voice. ‘Not winesellers and paupers and old drunks. Kill the things in the North. And Lannisters. And Theon.’ 

He kissed her fingers.

***

She’s gone into a sulk again, a lump under the bedcloth, though it doesn’t make me laugh as it did before. I drag her up, practically, bid her dress, try not to touch her too much. It’s a different day. 

***

They had left more coin than they’d pledged with the old woman, who stood at her gate as they rolled away through the mud. She looked as slight as a reed, swaying in the wind, her ear cocked to Stranger’s hooves as they squelched further away from her. Sansa pulled her cloak over her head. There was a rawness in the air.

Sandor had reckoned that they would just have to reach the brow of the long, shallow-sloping hill up ahead before setting eyes on the army’s camp. They entered a wood, the papery leaves on the hazels beginning to lose their brightness. They were both quiet. There seemed to be nothing to say. Sansa was trying to imagine scenarios in which he’d _have_ to stay, ridiculous things where she had lost the ability to speak, or forced him to become her sworn sword, or made Robb take him hostage. Maybe he would consider staying when he saw how kind Robb was. He could become his bannerman, swear allegiance, fight for him. 

Or maybe he would stay if she told him, _really_ told him, how she felt. She only just knew, herself. She’d tried, but she’d never said, not properly. Maybe he just needed to hear it. He was terrified of being cared for. But if she could tell him – 

***

She’s quiet as we ride. I’ve squeezed the hope out of her. I had to. She’s on a hiding to nothing, how can she not see it? She’s her hood up, but the sky has her pale face, and there are flowers the colour of her hair flashing in the bracken. Gods, I’m going to see her everywhere.

***

A fox loped nonchalantly across their path, a scraggy, brown thing. ‘I know a song about a fox.’ Sandor squeezed her shoulders with his arms as he held the reins. 

She didn’t much feel like talking. ‘You said you didn’t know any songs.’

‘I know songs.’ He sniffed dryly and put his cheek to the side of her head, his voice low and teasing. ‘I just said I wouldn’t sing them.’ 

Sansa felt her ear burn. ‘What if I make you?’ 

He put an arm at the front of her waist to pull her in towards him. ‘And how are you going to do that?’

Sansa went to reply when a man stepped out onto the path and pointed a bow and arrow at them. Sandor reined in Stranger, sharply. 

‘Name your allegiance’, called the man. 

‘What, or you’ll shoot us both?’ said Sandor, his upper arms tight around Sansa. ‘You should have more care than to point that at a woman.’ 

There were crackling and rustling sounds on the low ridges all around them, and suddenly they were surrounded by five more men, all holding bows up. 

A seventh man appeared from the undergrowth just behind them, and put a longsword up to Sansa’s chest, a sardonic look on his face. ‘How about this?’


	20. Chapter 20

Sansa stayed very still, her eyes on the tip of the blade, which was placed, with precision, an inch from her breastplate. She prayed that Stranger wouldn’t panic. 

‘Put that fucking thing down,’ said Sandor, his voice even.

She wondered how he would protect her from all of these men, and imagined riding through them, arrows thudding into her legs. 

‘I know him.’ One of the arrowman to their left gestured with his bow. The man with the sword narrowed his eyes up at Sandor. ‘Half-face,’ said the arrowman. ‘That’s the Hound. Clegane.’ 

‘ _Clegane_?’ called the first man from the path. 

‘The younger one,’ the arrowman threw back. ‘Not as tall.’ 

‘Fuck, I hope I never meet his brother then,’ called another from behind them. They laughed. 

Sansa looked as calmly as she could down at the man with the sword. He was just a few years older than her, with a thick scar running down his neck from behind his ear. He looked tired, and very young. ‘He is a Clegane. But you must heed me, he’s seen me here from King’s Landing. You won’t touch him.’ 

The man grinned. ‘Gods, listen to her.’ He’d lost his nerve, though, and looked at her more uncertainly. ‘Who does that make you then?’

***

How the hells I didn’t hear them - my head’s thick with her. They know me and I think, Gods, have I got her all this way only to bleed to death on the other side of the fucking hill? I can’t beat six arrowmen. But something changes. Sansa speaks – _commands_ – them to lower their weapons, tells them who she is, vouches for me. One of them recognises her and their bows come down. 

Karstarks. The swordbearer, young lad with old eyes, sends one of them ahead, says we’re but a few leagues away from the camp, no more. I say _you’d best apologise_ , and he looks at her, says _our humble apologies, my lady, I didn’t know you_ and she says _you should apologise to the both of us_ , and he does it through gritted teeth, and I think, you’d be wearing your spleen as a fucking noose if I had my way, you cunt, for having that blade up against her neck.

***

The Karstark men walked, bows slung over their shoulders, either side of Stranger, who was being led by the sword-bearer. He had looked embarrassed when she’d told him that she was a Stark, Sansa Stark, and sent one man ahead. She sat slightly taller in the saddle. It felt strange. The balance had suddenly, subtly shifted. She was part of a powerful family - a conquering army - and returning to them. Sandor, who had got her this far, and helped her survive, and wrapped his arms round her in the woods, was incidental. He was silent behind her, and she knew that he hated it.

***

The air is different now. It’s like a smell, just on the edge of your nose - the world, coming back in. The one where I’m a scrap of middleborn scum and she’s sister to the King of the damned North. The men either side have been looking sly at us, I can see it. I’m keeping my hands well away from her, nothing touching.

***

Muffled sounds had begun to filter in as they ascended the sloped path. Dull, thin thuds. A shout. They emerged from the wood at the brow of the hill and into a wide sky. Below, stretching a league into the distance, was a terrain of tents, and carts, and horses, and men. Men in clumps around fires, men with horses, men training with swords, men being shouted at, and shouting back. A sea of mud and men, and wisps of rising smoke. There was powdery rain in the distance, like a lace drape being pulled over the sky. A narrow band of pale golden light hung on the horizon. They headed towards them.

The swordbearer took them to a large, square tent, walled with heavy purple fabric that was wet with mud. Sandor dismounted and helped Sansa off. She looked at him reassuringly, and went to touch his hand, but he had a distant, anonymous look. 

‘I’ll wait here,’ he said, unsmiling. She took a deep breath and entered the tent.

***

It’s all I’ve ever known and never wanted to see again, though the colours are different - men and weapons and horses and training and tents. Mud, churned to fuck. And the sounds - voices all mixed up together in a fog, except for the cursing and spitting. The threefold gashes of metal on wood, metal on metal, wood in the earth. Cold rubbed hands. Pinched cheeks. Eyes alert, and suspicious as we pass. Nudging elbows. My stomach’s gone as cold as an icestore. 

Sansa’s got a look on her as she gets off, hopeful, _encouraging_ , like I’m an animal she’s been training to do tricks. Every fucking vein in my body is coursing like a mountain river, everything in me wanting to turn Stranger round and just go. I watch her duck into the tent, that long hair streaking down her back like autumnrash. I see it spread all over the pillow, my hands full of it. 

***

Her mother was sitting with her back to her, at a great table scattered with curling maps and goblets. Sansa stood hesitantly for a second, a pain in her throat, and Catelyn turned around. 

For a sliver of a moment, she didn’t move, and Sansa could see that she was taking her in, startled at how much she’d grown. Then she inhaled sharply and rose up and had her arms around her. Tears coming, Sansa sank into her mother, her wounded hand at her chest, her cheek on her shoulder. She saw her father again, and her brothers, and Arya, all together at Winterfell, and then their bodies scattered over the Seven Kingdoms. 

‘My girl, my dear, dear girl.’ She smelt like she always had, faint lavender and musty wool. It was as if she had never been apart from her, that King’s Landing had lasted mere days. 

Catelyn drew back, her arms clutching Sansa’s elbows. ‘And,’ her eyes were apprehensive, daring to hope. ‘Arya?’ 

Sansa shook her head, and her mother’s face fell. She couldn’t help feeling disappointed that her own reappearance wasn’t enough. 

Catelyn put a warm, soft hand on her cheek. ‘How are you here, Sansa?’ 

‘I was – rescued, from the siege.’ She wondered when she should bring Sandor in. ‘Mother, what happened? With Stannis?’ 

Her mother’s jaw tightened. ‘The Lannisters prevailed, with the Tyrells’ help.’ Sansa’s heart sank. Joffrey was still alive, then. All of them were. Her mother was carefully holding her bandaged wrist up with concern. ‘Who rescued you?’ 

Sansa swallowed, and drew herself up. ‘Sandor Clegane.’ 

Catelyn’s eyes widened. ‘ _Clegane_?’ She drew out the name incredulously. ‘How can that be?’ 

Sansa saw the doubt in her face, her mind working. ‘He’s outside. Can I – will you meet with him?’ 

Her mother seemed to be struggling to comprehend. She gave a small, silent nod. 

***

Eyes are on me. They make me bloody itch. I yank the arm of some scrap of a squire, and say you got wine on you and he says no ser and I say well if you get me some quick I won’t chop both your arms off and he scuttles away. Gods, if ever I had a thirst on me it’s now. I feel fucking sick. What does she think’s going to happen? They’re going to welcome me as their ownborn, give me a keep, give me her? 

Squire’s back. Sour Dornish pissblood never tasted so good.

Sansa’s here again at my shoulder. Those eyes. Pale leaves when the light’s blasting through them. I’d do anything for them, except what she wants, to bend my fucking knee and beg for – something. 

_Will you – see my mother_? she says, gentle, hopeful. Seeing me knighted and lorded and being bid to bloody marry her or whatever it is. When I know full well what’s coming, and it’s none of that. It’ll never be that. It’s not the way the world works. 

I neck the biggest swig of wine I’ve had in weeks. _Ay_ , I say.

***

Her mother was standing ready for them, her hands folded. She tilted her chin up at Sandor as he entered, looking more highborn than she had a moment ago. He stood, awkwardly, and nodded curtly at her. 

This was going to be more difficult than Sansa had hoped. ‘Mother, this is Sandor Clegane.’ 

‘I remember you well,’ she said, looking at him unflinchingly. Her hostility was as plain as day. ‘You’ll be expecting payment, then.’ 

Sandor was impassive. ‘I’ll not be.’ 

‘Then what it is you want?’ Catelyn asked. 

He shook his head. ‘Nothing you’ll understand.’ 

Catelyn took in a breath then, her eyes darting from him to Sansa and back again. 

‘ _Sansa_!’ Robb was there, sweeping in and grabbing Sansa around her middle. 

For an instant, she was eight again, and he was chucking her off the haybales. ‘Robb, you’re crushing me.’ 

He put her down, carefully, and his boyish, open face changed, as if he’d suddenly remembered who he was now. Roose Bolton, flint-eyed, had entered behind him and stood respectfully by the door, frowning icily at Sandor, who steadfastly ignored him. 

Robb picked up her bandaged wrist. ‘Your hand.’ He seemed so much older. ‘I’ll have Tulisa look at it.’ His beard was thicker and his long dark red cloak gave him a gravitas she couldn’t have imagined he could carry. He was a leader. 

Sansa introduced Sandor to him and watched Robb’s face harden. ‘You’re Joffrey’s man.’

Sandor looked indifferent. ‘I was.’ 

She wished he could answer a little more respectfully, but knew how hard it was for him. She looked earnestly at her brother. ‘He left the battle, and he’s seen me safe. All the way here.’ 

Robb hadn’t taken his eyes off Sandor’s face. ‘I thank you, then,’ he said to him, guardedly, but not without kindness. He looked at their mother. 

Catelyn suddenly said, ‘We’d like to talk to Sansa alone.’ Sansa’s heart sank. Sandor jerked his head slightly, tight-lipped, and strode out again. Robb nodded at Roose Bolton, who followed him outside.

***

The Stark woman has a jaw on her like a metal brace. I know as soon as I see her that Sansa’s happy ending is going to fire-curl to nothing. That everything will be as I’ve said it must. Her brother, the Young Wolf himself, is older than I remember, though not as wise as he thinks. He speaks as his mother does, the words smoothed out, brickmud, giving nothing away. They’re all looking at me like I’m a sinew in their teeth they can’t get out, and he bids me go outside again so they can talk to her on their own.

Wine’s finished. Where’s that bloody squire? I move off a bit, see to Stranger, who’s scaring the shit out of a couple of green horsehands. He snorts onto my hand, slobbers. You and me, boy. 

I’m praying she’s the sense to say nothing at all in there. For her sake, not mine.

***

Her mother sat her down and looked at her searchingly. ‘Sansa, what did he do to you?’ 

‘Nothing!’ Sansa didn’t look up. 

‘Sansa. I know you’re not telling me the truth.’ Catelyn put a hand over hers. ‘You’re safe now.’ She pressed, more gently. ‘You must tell me. If he hurt you –‘ 

‘No, mother. He didn’t hurt me.’ Sansa’s voice was tight.

There was a pause, whilst her mother considered her. ‘Have you lain with him?’ Sansa didn’t answer, glaring at the wall of the tent. She heard Catelyn exhale, tightly. ‘Sansa, if you’ve lain with – that man, you know what means for you. For us –‘ 

Sansa turned to her, furious. ‘You have no idea. You have no idea what it was like for me there. Do you think they treated me like a princess? They imprisoned me. They hit me. Joffrey made them strip me. In court. In front of people. And then - there were riots, and men attacked me -’ 

Catelyn was beginning to look horrified. Sansa was about to tell her how Sandor had protected her there, but she could see what her mother was starting to think. And she let her. 

‘I was attacked,’ she said again, more finally. Robb, a few paces away, seemed shocked, and bowed his head. Catelyn tried to read her face, looking for a sign that Sansa wasn’t telling the truth. She looked back at her mother utterly impassively. She wasn’t lying. 

Catelyn took her hand and put it between hers on her lap. ‘My girl,’ she said, and couldn’t seem to say anymore. 

Sansa was beginning to feel enraged. Sandor had been right. They were happy that she was back, that was plain enough. But they only wanted her for their own alliances. Her mother would never care what she wanted. And it was her who had let them all down. ‘Where were you?’ Catelyn looked puzzled and Sansa glared at her, her eyes stinging. ‘Bran. Rickon.’ 

On hearing the names, her mother looked ashamed, then gravely sad. She had more lines on her face than Sansa remembered, thinking of the riverine cracks in the inn wall. ‘I felt it my duty to be he-‘ 

‘Your _duty_ was to look after your children.’ Sansa felt something inside her snap. ‘How could you leave them up there? To fend for themselves? To guard Winterfell?’ 

Catelyn put her hand up to Sansa’s cheek, and she felt a tear spill onto it. ‘I will never forgive myself, Sansa.’

Catelyn bade Sansa to go and sit in another tent whilst she talked it over with Robb. Sansa flung herself down on a bench. The thought of not seeing him again made her want to shout and scream, tear down the walls. She would run away with him if they didn’t let him stay. They would go back to the woods, hide there, go further, get a boat, run as far as they could away from everyone.

***

 _He’s almost as ugly as you_. A voice behind me. Bolton, the Dreadfort man, dark cunt if ever I saw one, a face that’s a smile and a frown without being either. 

_You can fuck off_ , I say. 

_You’re mistaken, Clegane,_ he says, _it’s you who’ll be fucking off soon enough, maybe with my sword between your shoulder blades_. 

_Come on then_ , I say, ready as anything for a proper fight – I could do with some blood misting the air. 

He just looks at me, a smirk that isn’t a smirk. You’d rip his face off and he’d have another ready underneath. _Ah, so that’s what she sees in you, those manners of yours_ , he says. I spit on the floor. _Lord Stark’s commanded you back_ , he says. 

_What, not calling him the King of the North_? I say. His eyes harden, then. 

***

Roose Bolton came to take her back to Robb’s tent, and walked behind her, silent and watchful. Sandor was already inside, his arms stiff at his sides. He looked so stoical, as if he didn’t care about anything. As if the last few days had never happened. Her brother and mother were seated, but rose when Sansa entered. 

There was a silence, and then Robb spoke, facing Sandor, his voice grave. The Young Wolf. ‘I thank you, ser, for returning my sister to us. It means more than you know. But I cannot forget whom you have served. My father was executed by your king. That is unforgiveable.’ 

Sandor’s eyes flickered over to Sansa, and then back to Robb, taciturn. ‘I’ll be going, then.’ 

‘No!’ blurted Sansa, taking a step forward, and looking between them frantically. ‘Please –‘ she pleaded first to Robb, and then to Sandor. ‘Please don’t.’ 

‘We shall not forget our courtesies,’ said Catelyn. ‘You will stay tonight, and eat supper, and have your horse rested.’ 

Sandor looked sourly proud. ‘I’ll not get in your way.’ 

‘Very well,’ Catelyn said. ‘There’s an inn not two leagues further north, at the crossroads with Barrowburn.’ 

Sansa couldn’t bear them talking as if she wasn’t there. Panic was rising in her throat. ‘Stop it.’ They all looked at her. She spoke more quietly, anguished. ‘ _Please_. I – I love him.’ 

Her mother’s lips parted with disappointment. Robb stared at her, slightly embarrassed. Roose Bolton had a faint smirk on his face. 

Sansa didn’t care. She turned to Sandor, desperately. ‘ _Please_ don’t go.’ 

He looked at her and for a small moment she saw him as he had been last night, his head on her shoulder. Then his face hardened and he gave a crooked, darkly arrogant smile to them all. 

***

The Young Wolf and his hard bitch of a mother are waiting for me. They don’t speak, he just shuffles his feet a little, and I think, Gods, you green boy. I can see you’re fucking scared out of your mind, just one halfstep ahead of all your men, even if no one else can. And then she’s here, standing between us all, looking from him to me.

Her brother finds his voice then, and it’s threaded with wire, and he says the things I knew he would, and I think, I don’t need to hear this and cut him off. And something breaks in Sansa, a perfect glaze-plate cracked open, and she pleads and I see the three words that I never dreamed I'd hear she would say engraved on a Valerian blade and sent straight into my gut, a onetime perfect strike, and she looks at me and asks me not to go.

And I think, _my wolfling girl_ , and I turn heel, and leave.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its the final chapter, just so y'know...

**Epilogue 1**

She sat at the edge of a small, still pool, wrapped in thick wool and fur, the leaves under her feet dusted with frost. She came here often. It reminded her of the godswood, though there were no weirwoods here, of course. She wasn’t supposed to be on her own – too risky, her great-uncle had said – but she’d slipped out when her maid was too busy talking to the stable boy.

Winter had come in slowly. She’d known a winter once before and could remember being wrapped so thickly in furs that she could only waddle. This seemed harder, more cruel, and it was still only just beginning. It was a quiet world of great fires and thin, drawn faces, where people talked in whispers, as if over the dead.

The dead. She always hoped to see them here, in the blank pool. Her mother, and brother, and father’s faces, but she only ever saw herself, paler than ever, her hair dull through lack of sun. She found the dull throb of grief a comfort now, a thing she wore. If she woke up and didn’t remember straightaway, she felt a terrible guilt.

A twig cracked behind her. She sighed at the pool. ‘I’m coming back.’ Her maid didn’t respond, and the footsteps neared her. She began to turn and he was there, and sitting beside her. 

***

Gods, the winter came in hard. I’ve known a few, and some have been worse than others, but this has a vicious slap to it. Every time you step outside, it’s like being woken up from a drunk sleep by a jobsworth commander. Not that I wake up like that so much any more. It’s better being sober. Harder, lonelier, but better.

First off, I wasn’t sure how much was winter and how much was just - North. The further I went, the more the trees took on a shinefrost, and Stranger started to breathe clouds as good as a dragon’s. I had enough coin to keep me going. Didn’t need much. There was a crofter’s bothy I made my own for a time, once it got too cold to sleep under the sky. 

I saw Winterfell - a charred ruin, corpses mulching like leaves. I tried to look for her brothers’ bodies, but none could be found.

I thought, I’ll keep going until I can’t get any further. 

I made it to the Wall, the end of the world, or the beginning of it. Never could have imagined it, a thing wider than – life, wider than anything. Felt like you could put your ear to it and hear the howling of a thousand fleshmad white walkers on the other side. We skimmed along it for a while, eventually came to Castle Black, and her bastard brother. 

Half my age and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He wasn’t like the oldest one - remembered me, but didn’t judge. Too bloody good-looking by a long stretch to be stuck up there, but I soon realised why he was so damned serious all the time. I saw him kill two wights. Wights. Things supposed to only live - or die, or whatever the hells they did - on the tongues of nannas and septons. Thought, how much good am I going to be if the only way to kill them is with fucking _fire_? But I stayed, trained up some men for him. I was in the yard when the white raven came.

The Young Wolf. He’d brought it upon himself, marrying that Volantis girl, then taking them all to the Twins to piss in Walder Frey’s eye. Gods. Bolton twisting the knife – no surprise there, at least to me. The Snow boy became a different man then. I could see him, one foot either side of the Wall, trying to work out who to kill first. 

When I heard, I knew what to do.

And now here I am at Riverrun. I’d watched the castle for a bit, felt my heart give as I’d seen someone, swaddled in furs but with a flash of sungold, enough to tell me that the swift-walking bear was her.

***

Sandor was wrapped in furs, just as in her dream. He looked bigger than ever. She sat, her head turned towards him, utterly frozen in astonishment, and hurt. Her breath came out in slow, irregular swirls. 

He didn’t say anything, simply looking, as she’d been, deep into the water.

‘Everyone’s gone.’ She felt like she was standing in the middle of an ice-lake. 

‘I know.’ His voice was warm, and low, and just as she’d remembered it. He had a thin scar across his fingers, just below the knuckles, that hadn’t been there before. And a burn on his forefinger, rough-mottled skin.

Everything felt slow, and still, and rarefied. ‘What are you doing here?’ 

‘I was passing.’ There was a trace of that wryness in his voice, before he spoke more sincerely. ‘Saw your brother.’ 

She took in a breath. ‘Bran?’ 

He looked at her for the first time then, puzzled, as if worried that she’d become madspun in her grief. He seemed lighter. Energised. Those brown-grey eyes, locking into hers so startlingly she felt like she’d been stabbed. 

‘It’s thought they’re not dead,’ she said, staring at him. ‘But we don’t where they are.’ 

‘No,’ he said. ‘Jon.’ 

_Jon_. There’d been no word from Jon, no ravens, nothing to suggest he was even alive up there. 

‘I’ve word for you from him,’ Sandor said. ‘He said not - to worry. That he would avenge them. All of them. He said to tell you that - he loves you.’ 

Sansa felt a tear emerge from the corner of her eye nearest him. ‘Is that why you’re here, to give me his message?’ 

She knew she sounded bitter. She couldn’t forgive him yet, not so easily. All this time he’d been gone and she’d never had so much as a whisper from him. The season had paled and whittled to nothing, while she fretted under the eye of her mother, grew sullen, refused suitors, refused engagements. Refused to be a pawn for Robb and marry a Frey, though they ignored her warnings, refused to even go to the Twins when her uncle had agreed to be part of the bargain. Her mother had parted with her on terrible terms.

‘I’m going south,’ he said. ‘Further than south. I’m going to take a boat and go as far as I can. Somewhere safe. Sansa, there are terrible things coming. More terrible than you’ve seen.’ 

She looked up at him, stung, hearing him belittle her losses so flippantly, but he didn’t flinch or apologise. He leant his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands and eyed her earnestly, as if to make her see, make her understand. 

Then the line of his jaw relaxed just a little and he looked at her longer and more deeply. ‘I’m here to take you with me.’ Sansa couldn’t speak and just stared at his shoulder, where the fur was slightly matted. ‘He’s not the only one,’ he said.

***

It’s always water with us. 

She thinks I’m a servant, ‘til I sit down next to her. 

She’s become a winter girl. She’s like a bonechime, sounding nothing but grief. 

She looks at me like she might hit me, if she had the strength. 

I’d never stopped thinking of her, not for a moment. Course I hadn’t. I woke up with her shoulder blades against my chest, her grubby fingers in my mouth, her cold toes on my calf. Her ripeness, her crackle. I heard her name in the leaf-fall, in the squelch of mud underfoot, yelled by crows. She was my end-of-summer, and she was everywhere.

When that raven first came, I almost cleaved in fucking two, thinking she’d died there with them. 

She was the heir, if you didn’t include Snow. Inheriting a carcass, but it still counted for something. I told her brother, then, how I’d rescued her, how I’d taught her to hunt and make fires, and – almost – how I felt about her. And I told him what I’d do, and he gave me his blessing.

I tell her where I’m going, and that I’m taking her with me. And I tell her what I’ve known since that afternoon when I bashed that fish in on the bank, and her in the river, laughing like a street-corner madwoman.

***

‘Sansa.’

She gave the slightest shake of her head, breaking out of her reverie. ‘What?’ 

‘Jon. He’s not the only one.’ Sandor tilted his head just a little bit more towards her and the winter light gleamed on his burns. He had sat with his scars at her nearest side. ‘Who loves you.’ 

He took her little finger in his hand and brought it very gently over to him, holding it in the air in front of him, interlocking his fingers over hers. 

Sansa felt the tear roll suddenly down her cheek and land on the fur on her arm. It balanced, suspended there, a tiny pool with all the world in it, and broke and disappeared. 

**Epilogue 2**

A bird that could be cupped comfortably in a hand perches on a sun-baked windowsill. It has a plump, amber-coloured breast, slanting orange and white stripes on the tail, a yellow beak. They call them firefinches, these ones, because of their colour. It cocks its head into the cool, dark room. 

On the bed there are two figures curled, pale and dark, around each other into one shape like a cerith shell. They are still, their breaths passing and sometimes falling together. Sea-breezes send the scents of salt, cinnamon and turmeric folding in. 

The bird pecks at the windowsill at a little puffball of white and brown fur which might be a rabbit's foot, then lifts its wings and bobs out onto little ridges of air. It rises, and below it the red roof becomes many red roofs, and turrets, and as it tilts, there are long perfect rows of vines, and hills, and the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Went for a super-dreamy ending! I know it’s quite restrained, but it felt right… for ME at least! I hope it isn't too abrupt for some of you - I like stories to have an end point, and always knew it would end this way, and that it was very much about that first journey.
> 
> I've had fun putting these together. Ta for all the comments, they help so much and make my day!
> 
> I'll leave you with the two songs I put on the original separate stories, both found after writing the stories but seeming very perfect:
> 
> 1) 'Little Birdie' by The Kossoy Sisters: (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdlIONCJOPA or just google) It's a heartbreaker!
> 
> 2) The beautiful Mechanical Bride’s ‘Colour of Fire’ (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiiJ_Zy50Fs) which has an uncanny hint of wolfiness!
> 
> PS I wrote this having seen the first three seasons and not read any further, hence the epilogue having a huge amount of snow. I know now of course winter STILL HAS NOT COME.


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